


What Was and What Will Be

by ProofOfConcept, wilddragonflying



Series: Collaborations [72]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Breaking Up & Making Up, Episode: s03e05 A Life in the Day, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Lack of Communication, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Multi, No Monster storyline, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Queerplatonic Relationships, Sexual Content, after being married for 50yrs in an alternate timeline, raising a kid, that fic where two idiots figure out how to be together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2020-12-01 20:03:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20883884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProofOfConcept/pseuds/ProofOfConcept, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilddragonflying/pseuds/wilddragonflying
Summary: It's getting late, but Eliot has no intention of moving. They're sprawled out on their latest mosaic attempt, the tiles cool beneath them, ready to be picked apart and reworked into something new tomorrow. Not tonight. Tonight, they're celebrating. A bottle of peach wine is mostly empty beside them, another one within reach if they need it, the crackle of the fire they've got going the only sound except for their laughter and the soft rustle of the wind through the trees. Quentin is still laughing at something Eliot said, his head tipped back so that the ends of his hair brush the mosaic tiles, his skin kissed golden in the firelight. He's beautiful.He'sbeautiful.He's watching Eliot.





	What Was and What Will Be

It's getting late, but Eliot has no intention of moving. They're sprawled out on their latest mosaic attempt, the tiles cool beneath them, ready to be picked apart and reworked into something new tomorrow. Not tonight. Tonight, they're celebrating. A bottle of peach wine is mostly empty beside them, another one within reach if they need it, the crackle of the fire they've got going the only sound except for their laughter and the soft rustle of the wind through the trees. Quentin is still laughing at something Eliot said, his head tipped back so that the ends of his hair brush the mosaic tiles, his skin kissed golden in the firelight. He's beautiful.

He's _beautiful_.

He's watching Eliot.

Eliot's breath catches in his chest, and he reaches for his wine glass lest he reach for something else instead. "Happy anniversary, Q," he says, soft - too soft. "Here's to the first and last year we spend in this place."

Quentin laughs, straightening so he can grab his own glass, lifting it to meet Eliot's. "To the only fucking anniversary we have to spend here."

Eliot drinks deeply, and is just thinking that they might need that second bottle after all when he glances up and sees Quentin, still watching. There's something strange in his eyes, something warm and bright that makes Eliot's toes want to curl. He gives him a quizzical smile. "What?"

"Nothing, I just..." Something flickers across Quentin's expression, there and gone before determination takes over, and then, almost faster than Eliot can track, Quentin's leaned in and pressed his lips to Eliot's in a firm, fleeting kiss. 

It takes Eliot by surprise, but when Quentin pulls back, flushed and pleased but just a little unsure, he realises it shouldn't have. They've been building up to this for a long time - longer than they've been here, maybe. Eliot smiles, reaches up to slide a gentle hand around the back of Quentin's neck, and guides their mouths back together.

Quentin sighs into the kiss, shifting closer until he can slide one hand over Eliot's, his other reaching up, sliding around the side of his neck, thumb coming to rest in that sensitive spot just below Eliot's ear. When the kiss ends, Quentin doesn't go anywhere, just pulls Eliot into another one. "_El,_" he breathes in the space between kisses, pressing closer to Eliot like they're in the middle of winter and Eliot is the only source of warmth. 

"Q," Eliot sighs. His free hand finds Quentin's shoulder, while his other moves up into Quentin's hair, bracing the back of his head. They're laughing as they topple back onto the tiles, the wine long forgotten.

* * *

Their first time is on the mosaic, under the brilliant stars of Fillory, softening Eliot's skin and lending a gleam to his eyes as Quentin learns his body. They take their time, a slow rhythm that builds to a crescendo they reach one right after the other. The tiles of the mosaic are warm beneath them as they catch their breath, but when Eliot complains about his ass going numb, Quentin just laughs and pulls him to his feet, lacing their fingers together as he pulls him towards the cottage. Their second time, Eliot presses Quentin to the bed, kisses the breath from his lungs, and works Quentin over the edge with mouth and hands alike. Quentin returns the favor as soon as he regains his wits, rolling them so that he can straddle Eliot. 

They fall asleep tangled together, and when they wake shortly after dawn - as they've grown used to doing after a year in Fillory - they're still curled around each other. Quentin holds his breath for a moment, takes the opportunity to take everything in before he breaks the easy silence. "Morning," he says, turning his head to yawn away from Eliot's face. 

"Morning," Eliot returns, a soft smile playing about his lips. He rolls onto his back and stretches languidly. "A year and day, huh?"

"A year and a day," Quentin agrees, rolling until he can swing his legs over the side of the bed, stretching until his spine pops and he groans. "_Fuck._ What do you want to do for breakfast?"

Eliot sits up, pushing his hair away from his face, and eyes Quentin's bare back appreciatively. "Do we still have eggs?" he asks after a moment.

Quentin hums thoughtfully. "I think so?" he says, glancing back over his shoulder. "We should still have some, we just went to the market the other day."

Eliot smiles and slips out of bed, unconcerned by his nudity as he starts to wash in the basin at the far end of the room. "Do you want poached or scrambled?" he asks.

”Poached,” Quentin decides, getting up and starting to sort through the clothes on the floor. “The fuck did you do with my pants last night?”

"They're hanging off the doorknob," Eliot says, without needing to look over. "I was... impatient."

Quentin snorts, grabbing his pants and pulling them on. "You can say that again." He hesitates, glancing back at Eliot, gaze roaming over the play of the muscles in his shoulders, the curve of his back and ass, before he grabs a shirt from his drawers and tugs it over his head. "I'm going to start taking the mosaic apart," he says, briefly muffled by the fabric. "Let me know when breakfast is ready?"

"Sure," Eliot says, turning to watch Quentin leave. "I won't be long."

Quentin can practically feel Eliot’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t look back, and he doesn’t breathe easy until he’s out of the cottage. It’s not that he’s _worried_ about how Eliot might act today, it’s that... Well, they hadn’t done much _talking_ last night, and Quentin would really like to know how things might change after their night together. It was amazing, and Quentin doesn’t regret kissing Eliot. He just wants to know where they stand now.

Quentin manages to get half of the mosaic dismantled before Eliot tells him that breakfast is ready - Eliot had quickly taken over the kitchen when they’d realized that Quentin couldn’t _really_ cook without a microwave. They discuss which designs to try today while they eat, and after Quentin washes their dishes, they get to work. They work until the sun is high in the sky, not quite noon, before Quentin finally finds the courage to say something. “Last night was... nice,” is what he says, which isn’t exactly what he _wanted_ to say, but it’s better than nothing.

"Of course it was," Eliot says, leaning over to rest a hand on Quentin's shoulder and squeeze gently. "But let's save our overthinking for the puzzle."

Quentin opens his mouth, about to push the issue - but then he closes it, sighs. "We should," he agrees, trying to let the words and Eliot's touch settle him. "Hand me that pile of green tiles, would you?"

* * *

They work diligently throughout the day, and by this point they're utterly unsurprised when the mosaic once again rejects their attempt. Quentin immortalises today's design with the paper and crayons that never seem to run out while Eliot cooks dinner, and they spend their evening indoors, unable to spend another second with the puzzle for the rest of the night. That second bottle of wine puts in an appearance, but neither of them are drunk when Eliot reaches out and stills Quentin's hands as he's trying to clear the dishes away.

Quentin's eyes are wide, searching, and Eliot knows this is a monumentally bad idea. But they've been stuck here for a year now, with no signs of ever getting back to their friends. The two of them are all they have, and maybe - maybe this isn't such a bad idea, after all. "No overthinking, remember?" Eliot murmurs.

Quentin swallows, hard enough that Eliot can track the movement in his throat, but his gaze, when Eliot meets it once more, is understanding, and maybe just a little soft. "No overthinking," Quentin agrees, quiet as the night sounds outside of their little cottage. Eliot smiles, and pulls him into the bedroom. 

* * *

"Don't look now," Eliot murmurs, reaching over to take another red tile. Quentin is behind him, working on the green section of today's pattern, and it's been at least an hour since they last spoke. "We've got company."

”Why would you say it like that?” Quentin complains, already looking up - his tone changes as soon as he catches sight of their visitor. “Oh! Hi, Arielle.”

"Hello," Arielle says, smiling brightly as she walks up to them. "Is the mosaic still giving you trouble?"

Eliot turns his face to hide his smile, and keeps working.

”We’re still here, aren’t we?” Quentin answers with a laugh. “How’s business?”

"Perfectly fine," Arielle answers. She tips her basket so that Quentin can see the contents. "Do you need anything today?"

Quentin hums thoughtfully, pushing himself to his feet so he can look over the fruit. “We’re running a bit low on peaches,” he says. “I’m surprised Eliot hasn’t turned into one, with how many he eats.”

"They're divine," Eliot says, without looking up. "And they make excellent wine."

Quentin rolls his eyes, his smile good-natured. “You’re welcome to try a bottle of the wine,” he offers. “We can trade it for some fresh peaches.”

Arielle lights up. "That would be lovely," she says, and offers Quentin the basket. "Take as many as you need."

Quentin grins. “Might just take the whole basket,” he teases, rocking back on his heels. “Let me go grab the open bottle, let you taste it before you decide what it’s worth.”

"Don't bother," Eliot says, already halfway to his feet. "I'll get the wine, Q, and you can invite this lovely lady to stay for lunch."

Quentin flushes, shooting Eliot a look over his shoulder before he turns back to Arielle. “Only if you don’t have anywhere to be.”

"I don't," Arielle says, a pleased smile curving her lips. "This was my last stop."

”Well, great,” Quentin says, beaming. “Here, put the basket down, and I’ll grab the food.”

* * *

Lunch with Arielle becomes a regular occurrence as the leaves continue coloring and eventually begin falling. When most of the trees around their cottage are bare, and Eliot and Quentin have dug out their cloaks from the previous winter to wear while working on the mosaic, Arielle invites them to the town’s harvest festival. “You’ll be welcome,” she assures them, a gleam in her eye, “so long as you bring plenty of that wine you’ve made with my peaches!”

They follow her advice, bringing several bottles of Eliot’s now-perfected peach wine into town the day of the festival, along with a dish of roasted potatoes for the potluck dinner. The festival is in full swing by the time they arrive, and once they drop off their offerings, Quentin finds a place at the edge of the gathered crowd, just observing the goings-on. There’s games set up a little ways from the bonfire in the center of the town square, the children sounding like a troop of monkeys as they whoop and laugh. The adults who aren’t watching over the children are busy either tending stalls with some of their last produce of the season, or browsing said stalls. There’s various crafts for sale - Quentin makes a note to grab a quilt; he’d heard talk that this winter was supposed to be worse than the last, and it wouldn’t hurt to have another layer on their bed - and the air is warm with good company and the spice from cider and food alike, crackling with the sounds of logs popping in the bonfire.

”This looks pretty fun, for being three hundred years earlier than the parties we’re used to,” Quentin observes, turning to grin at Eliot who’s just come up by his shoulder. “Shame there’s no vineyards close enough for you to start trying to make champagne.”

Eliot grimaces. "If I can't make decent champagne in _our_ Fillory, where I'm a _king_, I haven't got a hope in hell here."

Quentin laughs. "At least you have _some _alcohol here," he says, reaching over to pat Eliot on the shoulder. "C'mon, I want to go look at the crafts; we need another quilt."

Eliot's immediately interested, and he loops his arm through Quentin's as they walk. "I'm picking it this time," he says. "The one you came home with last year is hideous."

"Why do you think I said something?" Quentin retorts, shifting closer to Eliot to avoid running into a passing family. "You've been picking on that poor quilt all year."

"I'm at least eighty percent gayer than you," Eliot says archly. "You need to learn to bow to my superior sense of style."

Quentin rolls his eyes. "You're one hundred percent gayer than me; I'm bi, remember?" He waves at Elder Futhar, sitting by his wife's honey booth, as they pass. 

Eliot rolls his eyes. "Semantics," he says. "Look! Quilts."

"I see them," Quentin says, giving Lucy a smile as they approach her booth. "What kind of design are you thinking of?"

"I don't know," Eliot says. "Something colourful. Our little cottage is still way too drab."

Quentin hums thoughtfully, following Eliot as he browses. "What about this one?" he suggests innocently, pointing to a quilt edged in blues and purples, surrounding a field of sunburst in all the colors of the rainbow. 

Eliot winces. "I said colourful, not psychedelic," he says. "That thing is offensive, Q."

Quentin snickers, offering Lucy an apologetic smile, though she seems just as amused at Eliot's reaction. "Granny Nanette has some more subtle options," she says, pointing at the booth next to hers. "If you don’t want bright, eye-catching designs, I don't know that you'll find anything you like here; I like bright and bold colors in my projects."

"Whatever makes you happy, darling," Eliot says, not unkindly. "We'll see you soon, okay?"

"Of course," Lucy says with a smile, waving them off. "Always a pleasure, Quentin, Eliot."

Granny Nanette is the town's oldest craftsperson, and her decades of experience show in her superb craftsmanship. "Oh, this was a mistake," Quentin groans, eyeing Granny Nanette's wares. "Eliot, tell me we don't need anything more than a quilt."

"We don't," Eliot assures him, though he looks tempted by some of the more quirky items on display. Still, he leads Quentin over to the quilts, and takes his time examining them until - "There. That one."

Quentin looks up from the quilt he'd been examining, stepping over to Eliot's side. "_Oh,_" he breathes. "That's beautiful."

It is. It's patchwork, different coloured squares sewn together to create a design very similar to one of their first attempts at the mosaic. Just looking at it makes Eliot ache in the best way. "How much?" he asks.

Granny Nanette considers the quilt for a moment. "I'm asking fifteen gold, but... For you boys, I'll let it go for ten if you give me two bottles of that peach wine I've heard so much about. It's been too long since I've had something that wasn't ale from the tavern or mead from Elder Futhar's Janey."

"Maybe we should think about starting our own business," Eliot says. He grins, and folds the quilt over his arm. "Why don't we give you three, and you can tell Bernard how good it is next time you're in the tavern."

"Deal!" Granny Nanette looks delighted at the bargain, and Quentin fishes the gold out of the bag at his hip to hand over. 

"We'll bring the wine over during dinner," he promises, shaking Granny Nanette's hand to seal the deal. 

They take their new quilt back to their hand cart, tucking it safely under the weatherproof cover before they join the throng of people migrating towards the tables laid out by the bonfire, several of which are damn near groaning under the weight of all the food placed on them. After retrieving the peach wine for Granny Nanette and delivering it, Quentin and Eliot take their place in line, getting their food and taking seats at the table that Arielle and her family have staked out.

Good conversation makes already-excellent food even better, and dinner passes quickly and easily. When the town musicians start gathering with their instruments, people start getting up to dance, and Quentin shifts so that he can lean back against the table and into Eliot. "See anyone you want to dance with?"

Eliot puts his arm around him without comment and gives him a little squeeze. "Maybe," he says after a moment. "How about you?"

"Maybe," Quentin echoes, smiling at Eliot before he turns back to watch the musicians as they launch into their first number.

They sit the first three songs out, content to just rest against each other and watch the villagers dance with each other, but eventually Eliot leans in so he can speak into Quentin's ear. "So what are you waiting for?"

Quentin doesn't lean away, just turns his head so he can look at Eliot. "What?"

"Are you going to ask someone to dance?"

Quentin turns to look back at the gathered crowd, snorting. "I don't think so, not this year," he says, watching Lunk spin Arielle past their table.

Eliot squeezes Quentin again, this time in sympathy. "No one else you've got your eye on?" he asks.

"Not really," Quentin hums, ignoring the way his heart skips over the lie. "You?"

"There's someone," Eliot admits.

"Oh?"

"He's cute," Eliot says, fighting his grin. "Really cute. Kind of a nerd. Ridiculous hair. Shorter than me, but I think that means he'll fit perfectly right here." He drapes his other arm over Quentin's shoulder, so he's hugging him from behind, and rests his cheek against the top of his head. "Yep. Perfect."

Quentin laughs, blames the heat in his cheeks on the bonfire. “You’re such an overdramatic bastard,” he teases, reaching up to cover Eliot’s hand with his, squeezing lightly. “Can’t just ask me to dance in the usual way?”

Eliot laughs and kisses the crown of Quentin's hair. "Dance with me?" he asks, his voice low.

Quentin’s smile softens into something content. “Of course.”

Eliot releases Quentin and stands up, extends his hand. "Shall we, good sir?"

Quentin takes Eliot’s hand, lets Eliot pull him to his feet, grinning. “Let’s.”

* * *

The start of winter isn't too bad; it's certainly no worse than the year before. Quentin and Eliot are able to continue their work on the mosaic until almost the new year, when they're forced to concede defeat to the snow that falls too quickly to be cleared away. They spend their time instead working on creating new designs for the mosaic, occasionally braving the trek into town for more supplies. 

They manage to make a supply run just before a veritable blizzard hits, snowing them into the cottage. Elder Futhar had warned them to stock up on firewood and supplies, and they're glad they followed his advice as they sit in front of a fire that won't die any time soon, the mosaic notebook tucked safely out of reach of stray sparks or embers. They each have a glass of Eliot's peach wine, and they've abandoned their chairs in favor of curling up together on the furs, one of their quilts wrapped around their shoulders. "If only Margo could see us now," Quentin murmurs, chuckling. "I think she'd have a fit."

But instead of laughing, Eliot just sighs. "I miss her," he admits, something he's very rarely allowed himself to give voice to after they marked their first six months in Fillory. "I miss all of them."

Quentin's lips quirk in a small, sad smile. "I know," he says quietly, settling more firmly against Eliot's side. "I miss them, too."

Eliot makes a sound that definitely isn't a sniffle and gathers Quentin in close. "Do you think they think we've abandoned them?" It's a question he's asked before, but only while very drunk. "Bambi must be so mad at me."

Quentin sighs, wrapping his own arm around Eliot. "I don't know," he confesses. "I don't know how time is moving back there. But Margo would never think you've abandoned her, El. You're family; she knows you too well."

"But she's also inherently suspicious and quick to see the worst in everyone," Eliot says. "If we ever see her again, I'll cut you for telling her I told you this, but she's kind of insecure."

”Everyone’s insecure about something,” Quentin hums. “I won’t tell her you said anything _when_ we get back.”

Eliot smiles. "That's why I adore you, Q."

”My unending optimism?” Quentin teases. “Or just the fact that I’m here providing you with company?”

That makes Eliot laugh, though it's choked and a little watery. "Both," he says. "But especially the last one. I know that given the slightest opportunity we'd both be anywhere else right now, but... I'm glad you're here, Q."

Quentin pulls Eliot in closer, shifts so he can press a kiss to his cheek. "I'm glad it's you here with me," he says, fierce and honest. 

Eliot gets a hand under Quentin's chin and turns his head so that he can kiss him full on the mouth. "You're a sweetheart," he breathes. "And a sentimental fool."

"Like you aren't just as bad," Quentin counters, breathless, as he sets his glass to the side, shifts so that he can throw a knee over Eliot's legs and lean in for another kiss. 

Eliot sighs into Quentin's mouth and lets his hands settle on his waist. "Why don't we lose the sentiment for tonight?" he suggests. "It won't keep us very warm."

"Oh?" Quentin asks innocently, completely at odds with the way his hips roll against Eliot. "What _will _keep us warm, then?"

Eliot's eyes flutter, his lips parting on a breathless gasp. "I'm sure we can think of something," he manages. "We're very creative."

* * *

They do find a way to keep themselves warm, that night and every other through the rest of winter. There isn't much else to do, cooped up inside of their cottage, so their days are generally spent working on ideas for the mosaic, their nights spent wrapped up in each other, under their quilts, learning each other's bodies until they can drive each other to madness with only a touch. Each morning they wake together, and although they're still trapped in Fillory's past, away from the rest of their friends, they find comfort and fulfillment with each other. 

When spring finally arrives, Quentin and Eliot waste no time clearing off the mosaic and resuming their work. There may or may not be a few mud fights along the way, a way to spend some excess energy, and an excuse to spend even more washing each other off in the creek that runs behind their cottage. When the roads are passable once more, Arielle starts visiting again, and Quentin and Eliot resume their weekly treks to town to share news and gossip. They even start considering making a true business out of Eliot's peach wine when the peaches are in season again - though that talk is put on hold when Arielle tells Quentin that she found Lunk "holding someone else's peaches."

Quentin and Eliot may or may not spend much of their time at the tavern that week glaring at Lunk, who spends barely an hour in the tavern before slinking out the door, his tail between his legs. 

"You don't need him," Quentin tells Arielle a couple of weeks later, when she's worrying to him about finding another assistant - the orchard is expected to yield far more this year than the year before. "I know that Lily is coming of age, and there's a few others who'd be more than willing to help out in the orchard if it meant getting out of their parents' houses for a day. You'll find a way to make do."

Arielle smiles. "I know," she says, ducking her head. "But it's not just about the orchard, you know?"

Quentin tilts his head in concession. "Yeah, I know," he replies, offering Arielle a smile. "The point still stands, though. You don't need someone who treats you like that, someone who... thinks so little of you, and takes you for granted."

Arielle gives him a soft look. "You're very sweet," she tells him.

Quentin flushes, his smile turning shy. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been called that. But it’s true, you deserve someone who thinks the world of you.”

Arielle reaches out to touch his hand. "Now if only I could find someone like that," she laughs.

”Well,” Quentin says slowly, turning his hand under Arielle’s until he can rest his fingers lightly against her wrist, “maybe they’re closer than you think.”

Arielle pulls her hand back, startled. "Quentin," she says, "I-- Surely you don't mean..."

Quentin pulls his own hand back, looking at Arielle with an almost painfully earnest expression. “I do. But if you don’t - I mean, if you’re not interested, that’s fine! I don’t want to, to pressure you or anything.”

"It's not that," Arielle says, a light flush dusting her cheeks. "I just-- What about Eliot?"

Quentin frowns now, confused. “What about Eliot?”

"Aren't you together?" Arielle asks. "I've seen you kissing, and you look at each other like..." She shakes her head. "I can't do that to Eliot, Quentin, I know how it feels."

”Oh.” Quentin bites his lip, shrugs. “We aren’t... _together._ You know we came here to solve the mosaic. It’s just the two of us, but we aren’t - it’s not that kind of relationship.”

Arielle raises her eyebrows. "Are you sure?" she asks.

Quentin nods. “I love him, Arielle, but. It’s different, and I... can’t really explain it. It’s just different, what we have.”

"It's different," Arielle repeats. "That makes no sense."

Quentin shrugs again, helpless. “I know, but it’s not any less true.”

Arielle smiles. "I like you, Quentin," she admits. "A lot. But I need some time to think about this."

"Of course," Quentin says hastily. "Like I said, I - the last thing I want to do is pressure you."

Arielle smiles. "I know that," she says. "I should get back on the road. I'll see you tomorrow?"

Quentin takes a step back, offering Arielle a smile of his own. "We'll see you," he agrees. "Safe travels."

* * *

Eliot looks up at Arielle's approach the next day, and offers her a smile. He's kneeling in the middle of the mosaic, today's pattern almost halfway done, and he's grateful for the excuse to set the tile in his hand aside for the moment. "Quentin's inside," he offers. "He's had enough for today, but I'm sure he'd be pleased to see you."

"I'll go see him in a minute," Arielle says, giving Eliot a small smile. "I actually wanted to talk to you."

"Really?" Eliot rocks back onto his heels and gazes up at her. "What can I do for you?"

Arielle hesitates, clearly attempting to marshal her thoughts. "Quentin implied yesterday that he would be interested in... courting me," she says slowly. "I... had some concerns."

"Concerns like what?" Eliot asks.

"Well, your relationship with him," Arielle answers. "He said it was different, but I don't quite understand how."

"Oh," Eliot says. He laughs. "We're not exclusive, if that's what you're asking."

Arielle still looks confused. "So, you two _aren't _together? But I saw you dancing at the harvest festival, and the way you look at each other..."

Eliot takes a breath. "Okay," he says, "this is actually very difficult to explain. You know what we're doing here. Quentin and I only have each other, and there's a lot between us. We adore each other. But we're under no illusions that we're only ever going to be with each other. Quentin's his own person."

Arielle's frown turns thoughtful. "So, you would not be upset if Quentin and I were to begin courting? And he would not be upset if _you_ were to begin courting someone else?"

"Absolutely not," Eliot tells her - and he means it. "But Quentin and I are always going to be in each other's lives. We're always going to mean the world to each other. So I guess the real question is, would that upset you?"

Something in Arielle's expression shifts, understanding coloring her voice as she speaks. "I don't believe so. But I've already told Quentin that I need time to think about it, _because_ you two so obviously mean so much to each other. That is just another question I will need to ponder." She smiles then, something genuine, heartfelt, as she steps closer to Eliot, reaches out to touch his shoulder gently. "Thank you for talking with me, Eliot."

Eliot smiles at her. "I really like you, Arielle," he says. "I know Quentin does, too. You'll be good for him, if that's what you decide."

Arielle's smile widens. "Well, it's a good thing I quite like the both of you," she says lightly. "It makes things much simpler." With another smile and a wave, Arielle turns towards the cottage, her steps much lighter than they had been before she spoke to Eliot. 

* * *

In the end, Arielle accepts Quentin's courtship, and they start courting in earnest. It's unsurprising, how easy it is to make the transition from friends to more. Conversations flow easily, and silences don't demand to be filled when they're together. When she's at the cottage, Arielle never feels as though she's intruding; Quentin and Eliot both make her feel _included. _It's nice, and a marked difference from her relationship with Lunk. 

Quentin and Arielle often go for walks together, sometimes to the town and back, and nearly two months after they started courting, they take one such walk. It leads them to the tavern, and it ends with the two of them supporting each other as they stumble down the road to the mosaic, with Quentin inviting Arielle to stay the night - and Arielle accepting. 

Quentin presses Arielle against a tree more than once, all but kisses the breath from her lungs, half-formed promises murmured under his breath. When they reach the cottage, he turns Arielle when she reaches for the handle, presses in close for another kiss as she turns the knob, and accidentally sends the two of them stumbling, laughing, through the door. 

A candle is burning low in one corner of the cottage, barely illuminating Eliot, who is spending some quality time with his latest batch of peach wine. He grins at them through the gloom. "And what time do you call this?"

Quentin laughs, his arm still wrapped around Arielle's waist. "Still today, not tomorrow?" he tries. 

Eliot laughs. "Barely," he says, and starts to rise from his chair. "But I'll leave you two to it."

"No!" Arielle cries, too loud in the quiet of the night. She covers her mouth with her hand and giggles. "No, I mean. You don't have to leave."

Quentin grins, giving Eliot a considering look. "She's right," he says. "You don't have to go. This is your house - your _bed _\- too."

Eliot looks between them, and maybe it's just the candlelight but there's something like heat in his gaze. "You don't want to be alone?" he asks.

"We are alone," Arielle says, grinning. "With you. You and Quentin come as a package, you said so yourself."

Quentin looks surprised at Arielle's declaration, but his grin, when he looks at Eliot, is soft, pleased. "We are a package deal," he agrees, guiding Arielle further into the cottage so he can kick the door shut behind them. The fact that this move also brings them closer to Eliot is a bonus. 

Eliot draws closer still, his gaze intent on both of them, but when Arielle just nods, he turns his attention to Quentin. They've done this before a thousand times, but it feels like the start of something new when Eliot slides a hand around the back of Quentin's neck, fingers curling into his hair, and brings their mouths together. Quentin hums into the kiss, his free hand sliding up Eliot's chest and over his shoulder, mirroring Eliot's hand. When they finally part with a soft sound, Quentin's grinning, gaze hooded as he looks up at Eliot. Without a word, and without moving his hand from Eliot's neck, Quentin turns to Arielle and reels her in for another kiss. 

Eliot watches them, something warm coiling in his gut, and when they turn back to him he knows how much he wants this is plain on his face. "You came in here with something in mind," he says, taking a slow, deliberate step back from them. He smirks. "Don't let me stop you."

Quentin laughs, quiet and breathless, his hand falling from Eliot's neck only to settle at Arielle's waist, tugging her closer so he can kiss her again. His hand drifts up, touch just firm enough to be felt through the fabric of her dress as he moves, until his thumb can just brush the underside of her breast. Arielle gasps into his mouth, her own hands hesitating for a moment before settling on Quentin's shoulders. She presses herself against him, sighs when Quentin's touch grows firmer, more sure of itself, and Eliot smiles.

"Get your hands in his hair," he says softly. "He likes that."

Arielle follows his instruction without thought, sinking her fingers into Quentin's hair and tugging gently. Quentin moans into the kiss, presses into Arielle's touch. He breaks the kiss to scatter more over her jaw, down her neck before pulling back. "Bedroom?" he murmurs, a question he includes Eliot in with a flick of his gaze. 

"Yes," Arielle breathes, already reaching for Eliot's hand. He takes it, and slides his other hand down Quentin's back to squeeze his ass.

Quentin grins, pausing only long enough to pull each of them in for another searing kiss before he turns and leads the way to the bedroom. 

* * *

What follows is perhaps one of the most intense sexual experiences of Eliot's life, and he doesn't even get his dick sucked. This is about Quentin and Arielle, and none of them are blushing virgins, but only one of them knows Quentin's body like the back of his hand, and it isn't Quentin himself. Eliot keeps his distance, doesn't get in the way, but he talks them through it, tells Arielle exactly how Quentin likes to be touched, how to move against him and get his eyes rolling back in his head, how to press her body to his and whisper his name in his ear, how to coax the most beautiful sounds from his lips. In turn, he also tells Quentin how to lick Arielle's cunt like he's dying for it, and he can't stay away for that; he plasters himself to Quentin's side and talks low and filthy in his ear, knowing that between the taste of her and the sound of Eliot's voice he'll be ready to fuck her again by the time he makes her come. And he is.

But no one touches Eliot. He stays back for the main event, touches himself instead, and when they're all finally sated, he crawls into bed at Arielle's invitation, and finds Quentin fits between them perfectly.

Eliot's the first to wake in the morning. He gets up and cleans up around the Cottage some, chooses the design they're going to work on today and is just starting breakfast by the time Quentin comes out of the bedroom. He's still naked - Eliot himself is only wearing a loose robe, untied - and gorgeously sleep-rumpled. Eliot gives him a warm smile. "Good morning," he says. "Good night, too."

”Very good,” Quentin hums, coming closer so that he can lean in for a kiss. “Arielle’s still asleep.”

Eliot wraps Quentin up in his arms so that he can kiss him a little more thoroughly. "You've got yourself a little firecracker in there, Q," he says. "She certainly held her own last night."

Quentin grins, fond and pleased. "She did. And it - it was really fucking good. It felt... easy."

Eliot smiles softly. "And it was okay?" he asks. "Me... getting involved?"

”It was _more_ than okay,” Quentin assures Eliot, pulling him in for a soft kiss. “We’d have said something if it wasn’t.”

"You never know," Eliot says, bending a little so he can rest their foreheads together. "You were both more than a little tipsy last night. Cold light of day, and all that."

Quentin reaches for Eliot’s hand, laces their fingers together and squeezes. “This isn’t like with Margo,” he murmurs. “We were tipsy, but we weren’t so far gone we didn’t know what was going on, what we were doing.”

Eliot winces. Even now, the thing with Margo is a sore subject. "I just don't want to get in the way," he says.

”You aren’t,” Quentin says, honest, missing the sound of footsteps approaching from the bedroom. “You’re not in the way, El.”

”Well, you’re in the way of the food right now,” Arielle says, leaning against Quentin’s back, rises up on her tiptoes to press a kiss to Quentin’s cheek. “What are we talking about?”

"Whether or not I overstayed my welcome last night," Eliot says, disentangling himself from Quentin.

Arielle laughs, not unkindly. “This is your house, Eliot,” she says, stepping around Quentin so she can wrap one arm around Eliot in one-armed hug. “You could never overstay your welcome here. And your advice was _very_ helpful.”

Eliot lets himself be reeled in, and even kisses the top of Arielle's head. "Happy to help," he says, grinning.

”It looked like you were,” Arielle laughs. “But next time, don’t stay so far away, hm?”

Eliot raises his eyebrows, and glances at Quentin. "All right," he says. "If you're sure."

Quentin grins, stepping in until he can tuck himself against Eliot’s other side. “We’re sure,” he says, Arielle nodding in agreement. “We’re also sure that breakfast is going to burn if someone doesn’t pull it off the heat soon.”

Eliot rolls his eyes and takes a step back, waving them both towards the small dining table. "Go and sit down," he says, his smile fond. "I'll bring it over in a moment."

* * *

Quentin falls across the bed with a dramatic groan, faceplanting into Eliot’s stomach. “I hate anxiety,” he mumbles, shifting around until he can wrap his arms around Eliot. “I choked again today.”

Eliot makes a soft, sympathetic sound and sinks his fingers into Quentin's hair. "Tell Daddy all about it," he says.

”I was going to ask her, while we were walking back to her parents’ house, what she thought, like, where we were going? With our relationship. But then I just... started thinking about everything she _could_ say, even the more unlikely shit.” Quentin sighs. “And I just... kept asking about random things. I asked her how Lily was working out as an assistant in the orchard twice.”

"Shit," Eliot says, laughing. "That's fucking tragic, Q."

Quentin tilts his head to give Eliot a baleful look. “I _know,_” he says mournfully. “It’s my fucking broken brain. And this is a really important conversation.”

"Well, I can't help you," Eliot says, still chuckling. "I don't want to marry her."

Quentin groans again, louder this time. “I _really_ want to marry her, El. I love her, y’know? And...” He sighs. “I don’t want to put the rest of our lives on hold just because one day we’ll solve the mosaic.”

Eliot sobers, and he scritches his nails lightly against Quentin's scalp. "I know," he soothes. "I know, Q. You don't have to justify that to me."

Quentin sighs, leaning into his touch. “I just... She fits. With us.” Quentin falls silent then, gaze flicking up to meet Eliot’s face. “You’ve been married in Fillory before. Is there anything I should know about it? They do a _lot_ of things differently, maybe if I know more about what I’m asking her to do, it’ll be easier to ask her.”

Eliot knows his surprise shows on his face. "Were you not paying attention when I married Fen?" he asks.

”I was a little more concerned with the fact that we were _in_ Fillory, and that we accidentally condemned you to a political marriage to get the blade to kill the Beast.”

"Jeez," Eliot sighs, "okay. Well. Unless you piss Ember and Umber off enough that they literally banish you from Fillory, it's for life. You can't walk away, you can't leave. You can't... stray. Ever."

”_Oh,_” Quentin says, eyes widening. “That’s - Huh. Guess they take fidelity seriously."

"Guess so," Eliot says. He wishes he had a cigarette.

Quentin falls silent for a moment. "So if Arielle and I get married... You and I won't be able to..."

"No," Eliot says. He strokes Quentin's hair. "But it's okay, Q."

Quentin makes a frustrated noise. "What about people like us, though?" he complains. 

Eliot raises an eyebrow. "Fillorians can take a husband and a wife," he says. "I was going to marry Idri, wasn't I?"

Quentin blinks. "Oh. You were, weren't you?" he says, almost to himself. "But what about lesbians? Or gay men? What if they want two wives or two husbands?"

"I don't know," Eliot says softly. "Maybe all Fillorians are bisexual. Maybe Fillory is only marginally kinder to gay people than our own world is." He strokes Quentin's hair again. "But that's not the issue right now."

Quentin sighs. "No, the issue is that I need to find a way to get the question out before my brain realizes what I'm doing," he mutters. His arms tighten around Eliot, and he continues, "Thank you for listening and talking with me. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Don't worry about that," Eliot says, his voice soft. "You'll never have to find out."

Quentin sighs, searching out Eliot's hand so he can lace their fingers together. "I hope you're right."

* * *

Quentin spends the next few weeks trying to find a good moment to talk to Arielle, and fucking it up every time he does. He's just starting to consider Eliot's joking suggestion that he write her a note and leave it tacked to the front door for her to find when Arielle beats him to the punch. She tells both him and Eliot that she needs to speak to them, and she looks serious enough that they drop what they're doing instantly and head into the cottage.

"Is everything all right?" Eliot asks as they sit at the table, because he doesn't want Quentin to struggle getting the words out.

Arielle gives them a strange smile, her hands twisting in her lap. "I hope so," she says. "That really depends on the two of you."

”What’s going on?” Quentin asks, clearly worried as he takes the chair next to Arielle’s.

"It's-- Well." Arielle clears her throat. "I have some news." Her hand presses against her stomach only briefly, but it's enough for Eliot to catch on.

"Oh wow," he breathes.

”What?” Quentin asks, still concerned, though now confusion is evident in his tone as well as he looks from Arielle to Eliot and back. “What news?” 

Arielle bites her lip. "I'm with child."

Quentin blinks, realization dawning. “_Oh._ You’re - Are you sure?”

"Yes," Arielle says, her eyes wide and earnest, "I'm quite certain."

”Holy shit,” Quentin breathes, and then: “Marry me.”

Eliot covers his face with his hands with a groan. "Oh _wow_."

Arielle looks like a deer caught in headlights. "What?"

Quentin flushes. “That - That wasn’t what I meant - “ Quentin stops himself, takes a deep breath, and tries again. “I’ve been trying to ask you if you’d be willing to marry me for _weeks_ now, I just... It’s not just because of this.”

Arielle looks between the two of them, her eyes still wide. Eliot hasn't taken his hands away from his face yet. "You... you really want to?" she asks.

Quentin nods, reaching for Arielle's hands, folding them in his own. "I really do," he says quietly, a soft smile on his face. "I mean, El can tell you how much I've been worrying about trying to ask you."

Eliot looks up at that. "I can," he confirms. "It's been quite embarrassing, really."

Arielle only has eyes for Quentin. "And a baby doesn't change things?" she asks, though the way she's smiling suggests that she knows the answer. 

Quentin's smile softens. "Not at all," he confirms. 

"Then yes!" Arielle laughs, and launches herself into Quentin's arms. "Yes, yes, a thousand times!"

Eliot gets gracefully to his feet. "I'll give you two a moment alone."

Quentin gives Eliot a grin over Arielle's shoulder, his arms tightening around her waist. "I'm glad you said yes," he murmurs, turning his head to capture Arielle's lips in a soft kiss. 

"I'm so glad you asked," Arielle sighs. "I love you." The door clicks closed behind them, but neither of them notice. "And Eliot."

”I love you, too,” Quentin says. “Both of you. El’s... He’s been an absolute saint, when he hasn’t been teasing me relentlessly about this.”

Arielle pulls back, and gives Quentin the softest smile. "You should have just told me what was on your mind," she says. "I knew something was bothering you. I just never thought it was this."

Quentin shrugs. "My head... breaks sometimes. I kept overthinking it, and I just couldn't say _anything._"

Arielle hugs him again. "Well, I'm glad you had Eliot to help you," she says. "And now we're going to be a family!"

"We are," Quentin says, almost as though that's just now hitting him. He jumps out of his chair, pulling Arielle with him, and wraps her in his arms, spinning them around. "We're going to be a family!" The two of them almost immediately start talking about how to break the news of Arielle's pregnancy and their engagement to her family; they get so absorbed in that discussion, in fact, that it takes longer than it should have for Quentin to realize that they're missing a person. "Wait. Eliot's not back yet. I thought he said he was only going out for a moment?"

"Maybe you should look for him?" Arielle suggests.

Quentin hesitates, glancing at the door. "I probably should," he says slowly. He glances back at Arielle. "You'll be alright here? I don't know how long it'll take to find him and figure out what's wrong."

Arielle gives him an indulgent smile. "I'm fine," she says. "Go and talk to him."

Quentin leans in for a quick kiss before he darts out the door. 

He doesn't need to go far. Eliot is on his knees in the middle of the mosaic, his back to the cottage, and he doesn't look up when he hears Quentin approaching. "So you're going to be a husband and a father," he says, reaching for another red tile. "Congratulations."

"Thanks," Quentin says, "but that didn't sound... _entirely_ sincere." His steps slow, and he hesitates only a moment before he settles on the part of the mosaic that's already been finished.

Eliot looks up at him briefly and then away. "No," he says, "I mean it. I'm happy for you, Q. This is what you've always wanted."

"El," Quentin says softly, shifting closer so he can reach out and lay his hand over Eliot's, "what's wrong?"

Eliot gives him a weak smile. "I'm fine," he says, squeezing Quentin's hand for a second before he pulls away. "I'm just pissed I'm gonna have to find somewhere to live. Do you know what the housing market is like in Fillory? I don't."

"Why... would you need to find somewhere to live? This is still your house, El."

"There's only one bed, Q," Eliot says. "You're getting married and starting a family... You need the space."

"I'm not the only one starting a family, though," Quentin says, confused. "_We_ are. Arielle told _both_ of us about the pregnancy."

It's like Eliot's not hearing Quentin at all. "Look, Q, you know I think the world of you both," he says. "And you'll... you'll always mean everything to me. But you know this means the end for us."

"No, actually, I _don't_ know that," Quentin says, clearly frustrated and doing his best not to snap. "You mean so much to us, too, El. Why does Arielle and I getting - " He stops dead, blinking. Then he frowns. "Eliot," he says slowly, "Do you... think I _only_ want to marry Arielle?"

Eliot frowns. "Isn't that what we've been talking about for the last month?"

Quentin sighs, scooting closer until he can take Eliot's hand in his again, needing that extra contact. "Yes. But..." He laughs, the sound self-deprecating. "I guess I should've actually _said _at some point that I want to marry you, too. I thought that was... kind of obvious, actually. But I didn't say anything, so. I guess that's on me."

Eliot barks a sharp laugh, incredulous. "It would have been nice to get that memo," he says. "Christ, Q. I told you you wouldn't be able to stray once you married her."

"You did," Quentin acknowledges, "but you also said that Fillorian marriage allows for a husband _and _a wife. And I know you and I both know just how much we mean to each other, I... kinda thought it was a foregone conclusion that we'd get married, too, if I ever managed to ask Arielle."

"Well, it wasn't," Eliot says. "And even if it was - you're having a kid now. That changes everything."

Quentin frowns. "No, it doesn't? Arielle knows that you and I, we aren't leaving each other. She's _known _that ever since we started seeing each other. Hell, she was the one who told me to come out and find you, make sure you were okay."

"You're going to be a _father_, Q," Eliot says, a little desperately. "I'm happy for you. I'm so, so happy for you. You know that. But I can't live with you and-- and _be_ with you, and be Uncle Eliot to this kid."

"And why can't you be a father, too?" Quentin says, too soft to be called a retort. "I doubt we'd be the weirdest family in history with two fathers, a mother, and a kid."

Eliot blinks. "You want that?"

"Yeah," Quentin says, a soft smile curving his lips. "I think you're underestimating just how much of my life I want to share with you, El."

"And how does Arielle feel about this?" Eliot asks.

"Well, she said she loves us both, so I'm guessing she's fine with it," Quentin says, aiming for 'light' and missing the mark. "But we can always go ask her."

Eliot's stalling, and they both know it. He takes a breath. "Don't you think you'd better ask me, first?"

Even so, Quentin humors him for another moment. "Eliot Waugh," he says, completely serious as he reaches for Eliot's other hand, squeezing lightly once he has both in his, "will you marry me and start a family with me and Arielle?"

Eliot squeezes Quentin's hands so tightly his knuckles go white - and he laughs. "Well," he says, "I've got nothing better to do."

Quentin gives Eliot an unimpressed look. "Yes or no, Waugh," he says, unable to stop the corner of his mouth from twitching. 

Eliot can't help the grin that steals across his face as he says, "Yes."

* * *

Telling Arielle’s parents is _much_ less daunting of a task than asking Arielle to marry him had been. Arielle handles most of that conversation, as a matter of fact, and it goes smoothly. The wedding is set for a month away, and it passes in a blur of preparations. Quentin and Eliot quickly agree to put the mosaic on hold for a while as they get ready for not only the wedding, but Arielle moving in - and the birth of their child. The cottage could generously be called ‘cozy’ for three people, but for three people _and_ a baby, it cannot be called anything other than ‘cramped.’ With only a pantry, one large room containing the kitchen, dining table, and living room, and a bedroom, there’s not any room for a baby. So, they set out to rectify that, speaking with carpenters and masons alike until they settle on a plan - just a single room, but it would be enough to give the baby their own space when they’re old enough - and begin construction.

The wedding itself is a simple ceremony. Granny Nanette binds first Arielle and Quentin, and then Quentin and Eliot together for life before the celebrations begin in earnest. The celebrations mostly consist of dancing and feasting, and everyone enjoys themselves, congratulating all three on the start to their new life. Quentin dances with Arielle and Eliot, separately and together, and when the sun has long since crossed the horizon and the moon has risen, they finally retire to their home, even though the party is still going strong.

Once they’re home, the door locked behind them, there’s no hesitation, no nervousness. Eliot leads them to the bedroom, and Quentin helps Arielle out of her dress, taking his time and pressing kisses to each inch of skin he bares, as Eliot does the same to him. When Quentin turns to Eliot, Arielle fits herself against his back, watching and murmuring encouragement and ideas into the quiet space between them as Quentin undresses Eliot, presses him back to the bed, and kisses him deeply. Arielle shifts around them, tugs at Quentin until he’s on his back, Eliot and Arielle at each side, the two of them taking turns pressing kisses to Quentin’s jaw, neck, and lips as they decide what to do tonight.

In the end, Quentin sits up long enough to help Eliot work himself open before Eliot and Arielle shove him back down so that Arielle can position herself over his face, press her cunt to his tongue and lips as Eliot sinks onto his cock, riding Quentin into the mattress beneath them. After, they curl up together as they’ve grown accustomed to, Quentin in the middle, Eliot tucked up against his back, arm slung over his waist while Quentin holds Arielle close, her arm lying over Eliot’s. 

They find their rhythm in this new life together easily. Once the addition to the cottage is finished, Quentin and Eliot resume their work on the mosaic, though there’s no longer any semblance of urgency to their attempts; it takes a couple of days now to finish a design. The leaves are just starting to turn when Arielle, sitting on the table outside in the sunshine and working on the books for the orchard, demands that Quentin and Eliot come over immediately. Quentin nearly trips over the edge of the mosaic on his way to his wife’s side; she doesn’t _sound_ alarmed, but there is definitely a sense of urgency in her voice. “What?” he demands, hovering by her side, anxiety clawing at his throat. “What’s wrong?”

"Nothing's wrong," Arielle laughs. "Give me your hand."

"Okay," Quentin says slowly, clearly confused, as he does as Arielle asks.

"Wait for it," Arielle tells him. "Any second now-- Oh!"

Quentin makes a sound like he's been punched. "Is that...?" he asks, breathless, unable to fully voice the thought.

"Yes," Arielle tells him. "Eliot, your turn!"

Eliot obligingly rests his hand on Arielle's stomach, and pulls away with a gasp when he feels it, too. "The baby's kicking."

"They are!" Quentin says, delighted. The hand on Arielle's stomach doesn't move, but he reaches out for Eliot's free hand with his own, twining their fingers together. "They're kicking. Does it hurt?"

Arielle laughs. "No," she says, "it just feels strange."

"Wait until it starts taking shots at your kidneys or wedging its feet behind your ribs," Eliot says. When Arielle and Quentin look at him, he just shrugs. "What? I've known pregnant women before."

Quentin hums thoughtfully, turning back to Arielle. "This makes it feel real," he says quietly, sounding almost awestruck. "Like... I don't know how to explain it, but. There's a difference between seeing you pregnant and feeling the baby kick. It just makes it more real."

Arielle grins. "We're going to be a family," she says.

Eliot reaches for Arielle's stomach again, and squeezes Quentin's hand. "We are a family."

"We are," Quentin agrees, squeezing Eliot's hand and leaning in to kiss Arielle. "It's just going to get a bit bigger once they're actually born."

Arielle smiles into the next kiss. "I can't wait."

* * *

Quentin and Eliot are lying side by side across today's mostly-finished mosaic, just gazing up at the clouds. It's mid-afternoon, and Arielle is still making the rounds with her peaches; it takes her a little longer now, even with help, but she still enjoys the work. They haven't spoken in a little while, both lost in their own thoughts, but now Eliot rolls onto his side, props himself up on his elbow, and gives Quentin a soft smile. "Your hair's so long now," he says quietly. "I can't believe it's past your shoulders."

Quentin groans theatrically. "Don't remind me; it's such a pain in the ass." He reaches over to tug at Eliot's hair, a teasing grin curving his lips. "Yours is getting long, too. And so _curly._"

Eliot grins. "Mine just seems to be growing out rather than down," he says. "Don't cut yours, though. I like it."

Quentin smiles, shifts his grip on Eliot's hair until he's cupping the back of Eliot's head. He pulls Eliot in for a slow, lingering kiss. "I guess if you like it so much, I can keep it long," he murmurs. 

"Good," Eliot says. He reaches out to twist a strand of Quentin's hair around his finger. "I have it on high authority that both of your spouses think it makes you look very sexy."

Quentin laughs outright at that, smiling at Eliot. "Well, that's quite a difference from the last time it was this long. Julia told me it looked like someone had stapled a dirty towel to my head."

Eliot rolls his eyes. "I know you love Julia, but the girl has no taste."

"Hey now, that's my childhood best friend you're dissing," Quentin teases. "I might have to fight you for her honor if you keep that up."

"She wouldn't thank you for that," Eliot teases right back. "She can fight me herself."

"Well, I'm the one here right now, _dear,_" Quentin says, pushing himself upright. There's a slow smirk curving his lips. "I think she'll forgive me for - " Faster than Eliot can react to, Quentin reaches out and digs his fingers right into that _particular_ spot beneath Eliot's ribs.

Eliot shrieks and falls back, automatically reaching out to push Quentin away from him. "You bastard!" he cries. "You asshole! Don't you fucking dare, Coldwater."

Quentin cackles, quickly reclaiming the space that Eliot had put between them. "Oh, I dare," he taunts. "Especially because my name's not _Coldwater,_ it's Coldwater-Waugh, _husband mine._"

Eliot freezes for a second, and then laughs, grabbing Quentin's wrists and using his momentum against him. They roll until Quentin's on his back, Eliot on top of him, and with Quentin's wrists still secured Eliot leans down to kiss him.

Quentin returns the kiss eagerly, humming quietly as he leans into it as much as he can, being pinned to the mosaic. He's grinning widely when they finally pull apart. "What brought that on?" he asks, breathless.

Something tender passes over Eliot's face then, and for a second Quentin thinks he's about to say something else, but then he smiles and says, "Just because."

Quentin smiles, soft and fond as he leans in for another kiss. "Margo would give you so much shit if she could see you now," he teases. 

Eliot shudders. "She'd stage an intervention," he agrees. "She'd think I'd lost my mind."

"Domestic life has made you soft," Quentin laughs, twisting his hand until he can lace his fingers through Eliot's. "I think it suits you, though."

"It suits you better," Eliot says. "You were made for this life, Q."

"You're not doing too badly," Quentin hums. "It's nice, living here with you and Arielle."

"I would hope so," Eliot chuckles. "You can't exactly go anywhere."

Quentin rolls his eyes. "You know what I mean," he huffs. 

"I do." Eliot's gaze flickers down to Quentin's lips and then back up, something light and warm in his eyes. "Quentin," he murmurs.

"Am I interrupting something?"

They both look over to see Arielle standing at the edge of the mosaic, mostly-empty basket at her feet and one hand resting on her swollen stomach. Eliot gives her a soft smile. "Not at all. Come and join us."

Quentin's smile matches Eliot's. "We were just talking," he tells her. "El says my long hair is very attractive."

"It's beautiful," Arielle agrees, coming to sit with them on the mosaic. "I love your hair."

Quentin smiles, reaching out to run his fingers through the strands that have escaped Arielle's bun. "Yours is beautiful, too. Eliot's, on the other hand..." His tone turns teasing as he looks back at Eliot, still straddling him and practically sitting on his lap. "Well, it's so curly it's almost starting to look like a rat's nest."

"Don't be ridiculous," Arielle laughs. "Eliot's hair is gorgeous."

Eliot sticks his tongue out at Quentin, who blows a brief raspberry. "You're not the one who wakes up with half of it in your mouth most mornings."

"If you hate it so much," Eliot says archly, "I'll cut it."

"I didn't say that!" Quentin yelps. "Maybe you could just... tie it back like I do?"

"I cannot be tamed, Q," Eliot announces, trying to suppress his laughter. "Accept these wild, luscious locks as they are."

There's a gleam in Q's eye as he says, "Oh yeah? I bet I can find a way to tame those 'luscious' locks of yours." In the next moment, he's wrapped an arm around Eliot's waist and is twisting them around so he can pin Eliot to the mosaic, practically sitting on him as he tugs loose his own hair tie, reaching for Eliot's hair with both hands. 

"No!" Eliot cries. He's struggling, but he's laughing too hard to put up a real fight. "Arielle, control our husband!"

"How do you expect me to do that?" Arielle laughs, making no move whatsoever to save Eliot as Quentin wrestles his arms down, pinning them with his knees so he can tie Eliot's hair back in a quick ponytail. 

"There!" Quentin says triumphantly, grinning down at Eliot. "Much better."

"I hate you," Eliot says, glaring balefully up at Quentin.

Quentin smirks. "No, you don't." Reaching for Eliot's hand, Quentin shifts backwards, tugging until he's pulled Eliot upright. "What do you think, Ari?"

"Very distinguished," Arielle says. "You do have a lovely face, Eliot; you shouldn't hide it."

Eliot grins, shakes his head. "This is ridiculous."

"It's _fashion,_ babe, it's meant to be ridiculous," Quentin retorts, leaning in to press a kiss to Eliot's cheek. "I agree, though. You shouldn't hide your face. And since we don't have hair gel here..."

"No," Eliot says. "Whatever you're thinking, no."

"But you look so _handsome _with your hair tied back," Quentin says, wheedling. 

"So the just-fucked look doesn't work for you anymore?" Eliot asks, one eyebrow raised.

"Eliot," Quentin sighs, shaking his head in mock-seriousness. "That wasn't 'just-fucked.' That was 'just woke up from hibernation.'"

"You're mean to me," Eliot decides. "I want a divorce."

Quentin laughs. "No divorce in Fillory, remember? You're stuck with me for life, El." He leans in closer, covers Eliot's hand with his own. "Although... We _could_ make your hair look genuinely just-fucked."

Eliot grins. "Well, with an offer like that..."

* * *

The remaining weeks of Arielle's pregnancy pass smoothly. She remains in good health, with her husband and good friend to look after her, and though she's prohibited from walking her peach route at the end of the season, she doesn't complain. She settles into their home, puts any restless energy into making sure it's as ready as it can be for their child, and when her water breaks the day of the first true frost, Eliot volunteers to run the route to the village to get the midwife. 

Quentin stays with Arielle, helps keep her comfortable however he can until Helen, one of Granny Nanette's daughters, arrives. Helen takes over quickly, lets Eliot and Quentin stay with Arielle until the final stage of labor, at which point - at both her and Arielle's insistence - they are both booted out of their bedroom to pace and worry in the main room of the house. 

Well, Quentin is pacing; Eliot is standing by the low fire, gaze flicking from the drink in his hand to the bedroom door to Quentin and back. On his fifth pass, Quentin glances at Eliot and frowns. "I don't know how you can stand _still,_" he complains. "I feel like I'm going to burst if I don't keep moving."

"I'm having an existential crisis," Eliot tells him, voice deceptively even. "It's busy enough in my head, believe me."

That gets Quentin’s attention long enough to make him pause. “Crisis? About what?”

"We're about to become parents," Eliot says. "I skipped this bit last time."

Quentin blinks, then groans. "Oh fuck, we're gonna be _parents. _Thanks for reminding me, I was trying to save that for later." He immediately resumes pacing, from the bedroom door to the fire and back.

"Arielle will be fine," Eliot says, waving a dismissive hand. "Helen's the best in the village. _We're_ colossal screw ups who now have to raise a human!"

"I know!" Quentin frets. "Christ, El, my brain breaks on a regular basis now that I don't have my meds. What if the kid got my broken brain? What if _I _break their brain?"

"You think that's bad?" Eliot asks. "What if it picks up my terminal cynicism and tendency toward alcoholism? Nature versus nurture, Q."

Quentin looks at Eliot with wide eyes. "Well, we'll - we're just going to have to watch out for both of those?" he suggests. "I'll watch out for the cynicism and alcoholism if you watch out for the broken brain? We've gotta be able to balance each other out in our kid."

"All of the good stuff is going to come from Arielle," Eliot says seriously. "You know that, right?"

"Oh, absolutely," Quentin agrees without hesitation. "But... Hopefully we can make sure we aren't _too _bad of influences on this poor kid."

"Hopefully," Eliot agrees, "but highly unlikely." He takes a deep drink from his wine glass. "Fuck, I need a cigarette."

Quentin runs a hand through his hair, ignores the fine tremor in his fingers. "Yeah, I wish I had one, too, right about now." He takes a deep breath and continues pacing, though the movement has lost its frantic edge. "We've got this, though, right? I mean, we're magicians, we faced off against the Beast, and we were both kings at one point."

"We failed spectacularly at all of those things," Eliot points out. "But sure. What's raising a kid after all that?"

"Oh, _gods,_" Quentin groans, sinking into the closest chair and burying his face in his hands. "We're going to be horrible parents."

It's a little late to realise that, and they have all too long to dwell on it. By the time Helen emerges over an hour later, they've worked themselves into quite a state - but all of their anxiety is forgotten as soon as they step foot into the darkened room.

Arielle looks sweaty and exhausted, and so beautiful, cradling a gurgling baby to her chest. She gives them both a tired smile and gestures for them to come closer. "We have a son," she tells them.

Quentin fumbles for Eliot's hand as they move closer, his attention riveted on the baby in Arielle's arms. "A son?" he repeats in a whisper, hardly daring to breathe as he carefully settles himself at Arielle's side. 

"He's perfect," Eliot breathes, his eyes round with awe.

Arielle smiles up at him. "Would you like to hold him?"

Eliot's gaze flickers worriedly to Quentin. "I-- Can I?"

Quentin smiles, squeezes Eliot’s hand as he tugs him closer. "He's your son, too."

So Eliot takes the baby gingerly from Arielle, gets him settled in the crook of his arm, and is gratified when the baby doesn't so much as whimper. "Oh god," he breathes. "Q. Q, look what you made."

Quentin laughs, a bit wetly, reaching out with one hand to oh-so-gently run his knuckle over the baby's cheek. "He's beautiful," he whispers, turning to press a kiss to Arielle's cheek. "You did so well, darling."

"I know," Arielle says. There's laughter in her eyes. "But now it's your turn. I'm going to fall asleep any minute now, I can feel it."

Quentin smiles, leans in for a proper kiss. “Go to sleep, then. We’ll take care of him, and start thinking of a name.”

"Thanks," Arielle sighs.

Eliot tips his hold on the baby slightly so that Arielle can see him. "Say goodnight to Mommy," he murmurs, and is rewarded with a soft coo. He grins. "Get some rest. You've done amazingly."

Sure enough, Arielle is asleep within minutes, propped up against Quentin and her pillows. Quentin smiles, presses a kiss to the top of her head, and then looks back at Eliot, still holding their child. "Let me hold him, El?"

Eliot hands him over without complaint, though he does hover long enough to make sure Quentin is supporting his head properly before he backs off. "You look good with a baby in your arms," he whispers, his eyes soft and warm.

Quentin reaches out with his foot, nudging Eliot's knee. "So do you," he murmurs. He looks down at his son, knows his expression has turned unbearably sappy. "How can something so wrinkly and ugly be so cute?"

"He's part of you," Eliot says, unable to resist coming closer so he can peer at the baby over Quentin's shoulder. "He's beautiful."

"He is," Quentin concedes, shifting slightly so he can adjust his baby in his arms. "He needs a name, though."

"She's been pregnant for nine months, and you've only just realised this?" Eliot teases. "You must have some ideas."

Quentin rolls his eyes. “I only knew about the pregnancy for seven,” he retorts. “I do, although... I don’t know, most of them don’t seem to _fit_, if that makes sense.”

"Don't look at me," Eliot says. "I thought he was going to be a girl. I came to this situation armed with Margos and Julias aplenty."

Quentin snickers. “Well, maybe he’ll be trans, and you can use those names then,” he says with a grin. “But... Well, I’m absolutely _not_ naming him after Penny, that’s just asking for trouble.”

Eliot laughs. "No, not Penny," he agrees. "Do we really have no other male friends?"

Quentin raises an eyebrow. “Do you want to name him after Josh? Or Dean Fogg?”

Eliot winces. "None of the above," he says. He hesitates, thinking. "What about your father?"

”Ted?” Quentin considers that for a moment, gazing at his son, who squints back so hard Quentin can barely make out the sweet brown of his eyes, and smiles. “Maybe Teddy, but... I think that fits him.”

Eliot smiles. "Teddy is perfect."

* * *

When Arielle wakes up, she agrees to the name Teddy, and their son is officially christened. They’re all enamored of him, but Eliot especially is wrapped around Teddy’s little fingers. More than once, Arielle or Quentin wake in the middle of the night, expecting to hear Teddy crying for his night feed - only to find Eliot already up, Teddy in his arms and suckling on his bottle. It’s those nights that Quentin wishes most desperately for a camera, to capture the picture Eliot makes, lit only by the moonlight spilling in the window, gazing down so softly at Teddy, cradled safely in his arms.

It takes Arielle a bit longer than expected to recover from the pregnancy and birth, but not abnormally so; Helen assures them all that some women just take a bit longer to recover, and there’s nothing to worry about in Arielle’s case. Eliot and Quentin continue working on the mosaic whenever the weather and their family obligations permit, and things are good - better than good.

For the first time in his life, Quentin understands what it means to be truly happy. He still has broken-brain days, but Eliot and Arielle are understanding and compassionate, and with their help, the days never get any worse or more frequent.

Teddy grows like a pudgy weed; he’s a fat, happy baby, seldom crying for no reason, and whenever he does cry, someone is always there to find the cause and fix it. He quickly masters crawling and scooting, even pulling himself up on the chairs or the bed, and Quentin’s already worrying about how to babyproof the cottage once he starts walking - which is sooner than they were all expecting.

Today, they’d all gone out on Arielle’s peach route, Teddy passed between his parents as he ogled every new sight, and they’re back at the cottage before dusk. Quentin is watching Teddy as Arielle and Eliot bicker good-naturedly in the kitchen over what to make for dinner, only for Quentin to interrupt them. “El, Ari! Look, c’mere, look, quick!” he calls excitedly, hovering near Teddy as he stares determinedly at the stuffed rabbit that Arielle’s mother had made for him, lying on the chair a few feet away from the one he’s currently clinging to - with one hand. He’s wobbly on his feet, but the way his lower lip juts out as he concentrates makes Quentin laugh in delight.

Eliot and Arielle are at Quentin's side in an instant, and Eliot grips Quentin's shoulder hard. "Oh god," he says weakly. "I'm not ready for this."

"I don't think he wants to wait for you," Arielle laughs.

”Absolutely not,” Quentin agrees, watching Teddy wobble forward. Quentin holds his arms out, ready to catch Teddy if he doesn’t catch himself - but he does. His leg swings forward, and he takes his first steps.

"Oh god," Eliot says again, sounding decidedly more tearful than last time. "Where's a phone when you need one? I need to Snapchat this to Margo, stat."

Quentin reaches back, finds Eliot's arm and squeezes, though he doesn't dare take his eyes off of Teddy. "I know," he says, his own voice thick as Arielle's hand lands on his other shoulder. "I - _Fuck, _I want to send so many videos to Jules."

"Fuck it," Eliot sniffles. "Look, he's doing it. He's gonna do it."

"He is," Arielle says; she sounds only marginally more in control of herself than Quentin and Eliot. "Come on, sweet - you can do this!"

Teddy seems determined to pay them no mind, however, as he slowly wobbles his way forward. He nearly overbalances at one point, but catches himself on Quentin's outstretched arm. He gives his dad a beaming smile before continuing his quest at Quentin's urging - and when he finally grabs his bunny by the ear and drags it into his arms, he plops down on the floor and immediately starts scooting towards his parents, babbling something that only makes sense to him. 

"Oh, sweetheart," Eliot sighs, dropping into a crouch so he can sweep Teddy into a hug when he reaches him. "Well done! You're our little superstar."

Teddy gurgles something else as Quentin turns and wraps his arms around both his husband and son. "You are!" he coos, smacking a kiss to Teddy's cheek. "Gods, already figuring out how to walk, where has the time gone?"

"He'll be a mouthy little teenager before we know it," Eliot says.

"Hopefully not _too_ soon."

* * *

Later that night, Quentin is woken by the feeling of the bed shifting behind him; when he rolls onto his back, Eliot is just sliding underneath the covers. "Hey," Quentin murmurs, reaching out to brush a lock of hair away from Eliot's face. "Was he hungry?"

"No," Eliot says softly, "he's still sleeping through. I just wanted to hold him for a little while."

Quentin hums quietly, a soft smile on his face. "You're so gone on him," he says, far too fond to be teasing. "I love that."

"I love him," Eliot says, unflinchingly honest. "He's growing up so fast, I just... I want to appreciate every moment."

Quentin's smile turns more than a little sad. "I don't blame you," he says quietly. "I'd do the same, if I..." He sighs, lets his hand shift until he can run his fingers through Eliot's hair. 

Eliot closes his eyes. "I missed out on so much with Fray," he whispers. "I failed her. I don't want to fail Teddy."

Quentin carefully moves closer, tugging Eliot towards him. "You won't," he says, his tone losing none of its conviction for the quiet needed to not wake Arielle. "You won't fail Teddy, El. You're here, and you'll _be _here."

But Eliot just shakes his head. He can't look at Quentin. "What if we finish the mosaic before he's old enough to understand?" he asks.

Quentin hesitates, biting his lip. "Then we find a way to send the key back first," he suggests. "I want to go back, too, but... We can't just _disappear _anymore."

"I know," Eliot says. "I'm not suggesting we up and abandon our kid at the earliest opportunity. But we have to go back one day, Q."

Quentin sighs. “One day,” he agrees. “I want to see everyone again, but we can’t leave Teddy and Arielle by themselves.”

Eliot sighs, too. "I don't know why we're even talking about this," he says. "It's not like we're ever going to solve it."

”Hey,” Quentin says, reaching for Eliot’s hand under the blankets, squeezing tightly. “We will. One day, we’ll solve it.”

Eliot squeezes his hand, hard. "Maybe we should take a break for a while," he suggests. "Like we did before Teddy was born. It's not going anywhere."

Quentin takes a deep breath. “It’s not,” he agrees. “So... Okay. Okay, we’ll take a break from the mosaic. Maybe spending time with our family will help give us a new perspective on ‘the beauty of all life,’ anyway.”

Eliot nods, closes his eyes. "Okay," he whispers.

* * *

Things change a lot after that conversation - and they also stay the same. Eliot and Quentin take a step back from the mosaic, completing a single design every week or even every two, and put more effort into supporting Arielle and her business, which now also includes selling the wine Eliot makes with the extra peaches. Arielle uses that support to take some time for herself, and in turn they all find that they have more time for each other. Their marriage flourishes, and Teddy blossoms into a perfect, still-chubby toddler. Margo would tease him for being so sappy, but Eliot doesn't think he's ever been surrounded by so much love. Brakebills might have been the first place he belonged, but he's never had a home before.

The one downside to how much time they're all spending together is how easy it is to forget that Teddy is always, always watching them. He says his first word late one evening, when he's fed and happy despite it being way past the adults' dinner time. He's sitting on Eliot's knee, refusing to be coaxed towards sleep, far too distracted by the spectacle before them. Eliot doesn't really mind; he's distracted, too.

Arielle is attempting to teach Quentin to cook.

"What's Daddy doing?" Eliot murmurs to Teddy, bouncing him a little on his knee. "What's he doing? Daddy's about to burn himself, that's what he's doing, and then Mommy and Papa will have to wait even longer for their dinner. Wait for it. Wait for it."

Eliot’s prediction comes true not even a full minute later; Quentin reaches for the ingredient that Arielle points out, forgets that he has a boiling pot in his way, and reaches over it - “_Fuck!_”

Eliot snorts with laughter, even as Teddy claps his hand and yells, "Fuck!"

Silence descends over the cottage as Quentin and Arielle both whip around to stare at Teddy, Quentin's arm cradled to his chest. "Did he just say 'fuck'?" Arielle demands. 

Eliot claps a hand over Teddy's mouth, fighting to contain his laughter. "No," he says, "absolutely not." He loses the battle.

"Oh my God," Quentin moans, even as Arielle's lips twitch. "I'm a horrible father. First thing I teach my kid to say is 'fuck.'"

"Fuck!" Teddy cries again, though somewhat muffled by Eliot's hand.

"Stop that," Eliot says. He means to sound stern, but the effect is somewhat ruined by the tears of laughter that are starting to roll down his face. "That's a very bad word, Theodore. Daddy should know better."

"Like you aren't just as bad," Quentin retorts as Arielle gives in to her own laughter. 

"Don't turn this around on me!" Eliot crows. "It isn't me he's imitating!"

Quentin gives Eliot a dirty look. "Well, I'm going to go take care of my arm," he sniffs. "You two can keep laughing at me, if you want dinner to burn."

Arielle returns her attention to the stove, still laughing, while Eliot bounces Teddy some more. "Daddy burnt himself just like Papa said," he teases, "and now he's going to sulk like a little baby. You wouldn't sulk like that, would you, Ted? You're much braver than Daddy."

Teddy squeals with laughter. "Fuck!"

* * *

The next two years fly by. Eliot takes great joy in teaching Teddy to swear as colourfully as possible and pinning the blame on Quentin, while Quentin and Arielle watch on in equal parts amusement and exasperation. Teddy himself is certainly the darling of their village, and he does his parents proud by only swearing in the privacy of their own home. By the time he turns three he's running around all over the place, chattering the ear off of anyone who'll listen, and it's all his parents can do to keep up with him. The mosaic barely gets a look in anymore. But they're happy. They're _so_ happy, and they wouldn't have it any other way.

Eliot frowns when Quentin emerges alone from their bedroom, standing up from where he and Teddy have been playing on the floor. "Is she still not feeling well?" he asks, nodding toward the bedroom door.

Quentin sighs, shakes his head. "Tired, more than anything else. That flu really did a number on her."

Between their feet, Teddy looks up. "Mama?"

Eliot stoops to lift him into his arms. "Mama's resting, baby," he murmurs. "She'll feel better soon." He tucks Teddy's head in against his chest and meets Quentin's gaze. "Maybe we need to find a new healer."

Quentin worries his lower lip. "Maybe," he says slowly, stepping in closer so he can press a kiss to Teddy's cheek. "For a second opinion, if nothing else."

"Here," Eliot says, shifting his hold on Teddy so that Quentin can take him. "Go to Daddy. I'll make a start on another batch of soup for when she wakes up."

Quentin takes Teddy readily, tucking him in close to his chest. “Thanks,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of their son’s head. “She’ll appreciate that.”

Eliot chucks Quentin under the chin, gives him a gentle smile. "She'll be fine," he murmurs. "Don't worry so much. You'll wrinkle that lovely face."

Quentin huffs a quiet laugh, leaning in for a soft kiss. "Nice to know you're so concerned about my appearance," he laughs. "Thank you."

Eliot's answering smile is far too indulgent. "Take the kid out, get some fresh air," he suggests. "I'll look after her, okay?"

”Okay,” Quentin says softly. “We’ll just be right outside.” Settling Teddy more comfortably on his hip, Quentin leans in for one last kiss before he takes them outside.

* * *

They find another healer for a second opinion - and then a third, when a healer from another village passes through theirs. They all express some concern at the lingering weakness and harshness of breath, but there’s nothing to be done, they say, except for rest, light exercise, and good food. Eliot more than has the last covered, and Quentin often helps Arielle out of the cottage for brief, easy walks with Teddy. 

Then, Arielle takes sick again.

She doesn’t recover.

The funeral takes place on an overcast day. Quentin, with Teddy on his hip, Eliot by his side, lights the pyre, tears streaming down his face even before the smoke hits him. Teddy is quiet, watching everything with large eyes, and Eliot holds Quentin as the flames burn, magically enhanced, until there’s nothing left but ash.

Teddy sleeps with his fathers for the first week, a comfort for them as well as him; he seems to understand that Mama has gone, that she won’t be coming back, but he still picks up on Quentin and Eliot’s upset, and it puts the poor boy on a hairpin trigger for that week.

The first night that Teddy sleeps in his own bed, Quentin turns to Eliot and hides his face in his chest and lets out every sob he’s choked back for Teddy’s sake. “I miss her,” he finally manages to get out between hitching breaths. “So - _So_ much, I keep expecting to walk in here and see her reading, or, or - “

"I know," Eliot murmurs, his own voice strained against the threat of tears as he holds Quentin close. "I know, darling."

Quentin sniffs, tightens his own arms around Eliot’s waist. “I just - It doesn’t feel _real,_ why doesn’t it feel real yet?”

Eliot squeezes his eyes shut, bows his head until he can press his face into Quentin's hair. "I don't know if it ever will," he admits.

"I don't - I want it to, but I also don't," Quentin mumbles, exhaustion starting to make itself clear in his roughened voice. "If it's real, we can move forward, but... How do we do that without _forgetting_ her?"

"We won't," Eliot says. "She was so beautiful, Q. She was our wife, the mother of our son. We'll never forget her, sweetheart."

Quentin sniffles, reaches up with one hand to wipe roughly at the tears on his face. "I hope you're right," he whispers. "I don't ever want to forget her, even if it hurts."

"You won't," Eliot promises. "None of us will."

* * *

Everything goes back to normal surprisingly quickly, which is part of why it's so difficult to handle. They would probably all prefer to wallow for several weeks, but Teddy needs looking after, and the business needs tending to, and in the end, they're forced to accept that life goes on. It even does them some good to get back into a routine; they don't forget Arielle, and it never quite feels _real_ that she's gone, but they learn how to function without her. The one thing they let fall by the wayside is the mosaic; they still don't know if they'll be able to take Teddy with them when they return to their own timeline, and however unlikely it is that they'll ever solve it, leaving him alone now just isn't an option. It just isn't worth the risk to even try.

Still, it's hard, harder than either of them expected. Quentin finds it increasingly difficult to put a brave face on for their son; finds it increasingly difficult to even get out of bed, some days. Eliot does his best to hold them all together, but he's grieving, too. Like he often did so long ago, he seeks solace in the bottom of endless bottles, wiles his evenings away getting as blackout drunk as he can. They both reach breaking point when Eliot comes to one morning, having fallen asleep in his chair, to find Teddy curiously examining a half-empty glass of peach wine. He immediately scoops Teddy up and marches into their bedroom, hell-bent on dragging Quentin out of bed if he has to. He tells Quentin what happened, how scared he is for both of them. They wind up spending the day in bed, holding their son and crying, but the next day they have the strength to carry on. Eliot doesn't touch the wine again after that. 

It takes them several months to find their footing again, for them to be able to get up in the morning and walk the peach route and cook dinner and give Teddy a bath without feeling like they just missed a step trying to climb the stairs in the dark. The rhythm they settle into is a different one from before, but it works. The day they realise they might be able to be happy again, without her, is a day they don't even think to make note of. They just wake up one morning with smiles on their faces, and Teddy, already in their bedroom, crawls up the bed to greet them and they sweep him into their arms and kiss him until he shrieks with laughter, and they find that they're laughing, too.

It's a shock, but it doesn't set them back. Arielle would want them to move on, and that knowledge gives them the push they need to finally start living again, instead of just existing. The change in Teddy is immediate and wonderful - they hadn't even realised how on edge he was around them until he stopped needing to be. They tell him over and over again how much they love him, shower him with as much praise and affection as they can, and he starts to open up again, to return to being the happy, sweet child he's always been.

And that's how they end up where they are now, sitting together in the main room of their little cottage one evening, tired after a long day walking the peach route and running around after Teddy, but happy. They're _happy_.

"He's been going down better," Eliot observes. Quentin's head is on his shoulder, and he's got his arm around him, the kind of easy physical intimacy they've only just started getting back. "Maybe we should see if one of Nanette's kids wants to take him for a playdate. Can't remember the last time we had the place to ourselves."

Quentin chuckles. "It's been a while," he agrees. He shifts, tilts his head so he can aim a teasing smile at Eliot. "Are you trying to scheme some adult alone time for us?"

Eliot's eyes widen. "No," he says. "That's not what I meant, I swear."

"El," Quentin says softly, reaching over to put his hand on Eliot's knee. "It's alright if it was."

"It wasn't," Eliot says, and he means it. "I'm serious, Q, we both need to be ready for that."

Quentin smiles, reaches for Eliot's hand and twines their fingers together. "I know. And I'm ready, El. I don't want to pressure you, but if you're ready..."

Eliot takes a sharp breath. "Yeah," he says. "I'm ready."

* * *

Helen readily agrees to take Teddy for a sleepover; he's old enough now to be interested in the idea, but still comforted by the fact that his own parents are just down the road if things go wrong. Helen's own sons - twins - and her daughters are close enough to Teddy's age that he's eager to spend more time playing with them, and when Quentin and Eliot drop him off, Teddy barely spares a backwards glance for them before running off into the woods with David and Ethan.

Eliot and Quentin take their time walking back to the cottage, enjoying the fact that they _can_ take their time, that they aren't running after Teddy for a change of pace. When they get home, they settle in for a lazy afternoon, reading and cooking in an easy silence. Dinner passes just as quietly, even when Eliot's foot hooks around the back of Quentin's ankle, pulling his leg forward until Eliot can trap Quentin's foot between his. Quentin startles at first, looks at Eliot questioningly - but when Eliot only gives him a soft smile, Quentin settles back in his chair, his own lips upturned as he returns to his meal.

Afterwards, they tidy up around the cottage before retiring to bed. Quentin settles into Eliot's arms easily - but when he lifts his head, presses in for a soft kiss, he can feel the change in the air, the tight knot in his chest at just how _long_ it's been since they've done this. "You still want to do this?" he asks in a murmur, one hand coming up to cup the side of Eliot's neck, sweep his thumb over the stubble on Eliot's jaw.

Eliot hums, pleased, and leans into Quentin's touch. "I'm sure, sweetheart," he murmurs. "Are you?"

Quentin smiles. "I'm sure," he murmurs, leaning for another kiss, one that lingers as they let themselves settle into each other. "I didn't realize how much I missed you - like this."

"We've been a little distracted," Eliot points out, smoothing his hands down over Quentin's hips. "But I've missed you, too."

Quentin sighs, tension leaking out of him at Eliot's touch. "Let's - slow, yeah?" he murmurs, his other hand sliding over Eliot's shoulder and chest, resting just over the steady beat of his heart. 

"Whatever you need," Eliot agrees, his expression earnest and open. "Just take this at your own pace, darling."

They do take things slow, this first night _together_ again. Eliot follows Quentin’s lead, and Quentin’s all the more grateful for it; it hasn’t felt like there was a piece missing in months now, but the feeling returns tonight. Eliot and Quentin had had sex by themselves while Arielle was alive, just as she and Quentin had, but it has been - it has been _years._

There are a few false starts, a couple of times where Quentin has to halt Eliot’s hands in place, hang his head and drag in deep, shuddering breaths and just _breathe_ through the memories - and there’s even a time or two where Eliot has to do the same. But when they finally reach the peak, tumble each other over the other side, it feels… cathartic. Neither of them burst into tears - though there _are_ tears, the product of too many emotions to name them all finally finding a release. Afterwards, they lie wrapped in one another’s arms, skin to skin in a way they haven’t indulged in in far too long. Quentin’s tucked underneath Eliot’s chin, his ear pressed to Eliot’s chest. The sound of Eliot’s heartbeat in his ear is soothing, reassuring, and Quentin finally lets himself relax and _be_ in a way that he hasn’t since the funeral. He’s gotten close, since that morning Eliot found Teddy with his wine glass, but there’s always been a lingering tension, some part of himself always strung tight. 

Quentin runs his hand up Eliot’s stomach, over his chest, fingertips dragging lightly over the hair there before he shifts. He wriggles around until he can prop himself on Eliot’s chest, reach up and card his fingers through Eliot’s hair. “That was good,” he murmurs. “How are you feeling?”

"Great," Eliot admits, his voice hushed. He curls his hand around Quentin's shoulder, strokes his skin gently with his thumb. "Are you okay?"

Quentin hums an affirmation, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "I'm good," he says quietly. "I think - I'm glad we did this. Took the time for this, _us._"

"Me too," Eliot agrees, his own smile soft. "I think we needed to."

Quentin hums again, a thoughtful noise. "We did," he concedes, nodding once. "We'll always miss her, but... It's good to know we can still do this, still be _us,_ even though she's gone."

Eliot nods. "Just another thing to add to the list of New Normal," he says. "Different, but still good."

Quentin smiles, then, a soft, slow thing that takes over his expression. "'Different, but still good.' I like the sound of that."

* * *

Things only continue to improve for the next two years. Their little family settles into New Normal, and while the pain of losing Arielle fades, her memory never does. Quentin and Eliot make sure that they remember her, and that Teddy does, as well. 

By the time he turns six, Teddy is no longer quite as pudgy as he had been as a toddler - though he is just as foulmouthed at home. Quentin long ago gave up on trying to convince Teddy _not_ to swear at home, and has just accepted Teddy’s colorful vocabulary. Teddy is still the darling of the village, and that’s the only reason why Quentin is able to remain somewhat composed when they drop him off at Laelette’s house for his first day of ‘school.’ Or the Fillorian equivalent, at any rate.

Eliot, on the other hand, might as well be walking backwards with how often he keeps looking over his shoulder as they walk back to their cottage. “El,” Quentin says patiently, “you should probably watch where you’re going. Teddy doesn’t need to come home and find out Papa broke his ankle.”

"Shut up," Eliot snipes. "You could be more nervous, you know. Our son is growing up!"

"That's generally what happens as children get older," Quentin says dryly, reaching for Eliot's hand. "I'm nervous, too, but he's in good hands, and this is stuff he needs to learn. He'll be fine."

"You're way too calm," Eliot insists. "I don't like it."

"I'm reassuring myself as much as you, here," Quentin laughs. "We've known these people for seven, almost eight years now, El. Teddy's safe with them."

"But what if he's not?" Eliot demands. "They don't have phones here, they can't just call us to come and get him!"

"But they can send one of the other, older kids to come get us, and we don't live that far outside of the village," Quentin reminds Eliot. "It would take no time at all for someone to run here and get us, and for us to run back."

Eliot sighs and loops his arm through Quentin's. "I know," he says, "I know. I just want him to be okay."

"He will be," Quentin says, tucking himself closer to Eliot. "He's a bright kid, already has friends in the village, and he'll pick things up easily."

"You're right," Eliot sighs. "I know you are. I just can't wait for him to come home, y'know?"

”We _just_ dropped him off,” Quentin says, grinning. “But yeah, I do know. We’ll find something to keep ourselves occupied until it’s time to go pick him up.”

"Oh," Eliot purrs, releasing Quentin's arm so he can pinch his ass instead. "Will we indeed?"

* * *

They do, indeed, find a way to occupy themselves once they finish the chores around the cottage that they’d been procrastinating on. They even manage to get themselves put together in time to go back to Laelette’s and pick Teddy up. They aren’t the only parents picking up their child, and Quentin and Eliot spend a few minutes catching up with the other parents of the village while Teddy says goodbye to his friends for the day. Once they’re on the road again, Teddy swinging between Quentin and Eliot, Quentin asks, “So, how was your first day with Laelette? Did you have fun?”

"Yeah!" Teddy enthuses. "I saw all my friends, and Miss Laelette is really nice!"

"Did you learn anything?" Eliot asks, and Teddy falters.

"I don't know, Papa."

Eliot laughs, and Quentin grins, squeezing his son's hand lightly. "Were you good during Miss Laelette's lessons? Did you pay attention to her?"

"Daddy, yes!" Teddy huffs. "I told you I would!"

"Well then you learned something, even if you don't remember it right now," Quentin says reasonably. "You'll get better at remembering things the more you go to class."

"Is it school again tomorrow?" Teddy asks, gazing up at his father.

"It is," Quentin tells him. "Miss Laelette doesn't have school every day, but she does tomorrow."

"'Kay," Teddy says easily, swinging on his fathers' hands. "What's for dinner?"

* * *

With Teddy at school now most days, Eliot and Quentin reluctantly return their attention to the mosaic. They still don't dare to actually try any patterns, for risk of completing it, but they start to work on some new designs in anticipation of Teddy being old enough to understand. That day might come a little sooner than any of them are ready for, though, because two weeks after his eighth birthday, Teddy asks about it.

"What's this book for?"

Quentin glances up from the carrots he's peeling for the roast for tonight's dinner, and blanches. "Where did you find that?" he demands, carefully setting the knife in his hand down so he can stride across the cottage to Teddy, holding his hand out for the notebook in his hand. 

Teddy hands it over readily. "It was by the chair. What's it for?" he asks again, glancing from Quentin to Eliot, still in the kitchen. 

"Your dad and I use it to draw out patterns, designs." He gestures vaguely toward Teddy's bedroom. "Like the ones on your blanket."

"So why haven't I seen it before?" Teddy asks, suspicious. 

Eliot exchanges a glance with Quentin. "Because we work on them while you're at school."

"What're the designs for?"

"Projects," Quentin answers, hoping it'll be enough to get Teddy to drop the subject - but he should know their son better than that. 

"What kind of projects?"

Quentin throws a helpless look at Eliot, a silent question: _How are we supposed to answer that?_

Eliot sighs. He decided long ago that if a child is ready to ask a question, they're ready to hear the answer. "They're for the mosaic," he says. "Outside."

Teddy looks at the door, brow furrowed as he frowns, clearly thinking. “Miss Laelette says that it’s special,” he says slowly. “Why is it special?”

"It only has one solution," Eliot answers. "When we complete the correct design, it'll give us something we need."

Teddy considers that for a moment. "What will it give you?"

"A key," Quentin says, glancing at Eliot. "You know we aren't from Fillory, Teddy. Fillory is our home, now, but we need that key to get back to where we came from someday."

"Our friends back in our own world need the key," Eliot adds. "We came here to get it."

"Oh." Teddy glances towards the floor, then back up to his parents. "Does that mean _you'll_ leave when you get the key?"

Eliot barely hesitates. "We think so," he admits.

"But we aren't trying to solve the mosaic yet," Quentin hastens to add. "That book is just for ideas, for after you've grown up. We aren't leaving you anytime soon, Teddy."

Teddy only looks slightly reassured by Quentin's words, but he nods nonetheless. "Okay. Promise you'll say goodbye when you finish it, though?"

"Promise," Eliot agrees. There are no guarantees, but it's something they can talk through later, when Teddy is older. "We're not going anywhere for a long time, okay?"

Teddy looks more mollified by that, and lets the subject drop. 

* * *

The turn of the leaves is always bittersweet for their family; it's Eliot and Quentin's anniversary - but it's also the anniversary of their marriage to Arielle, and of Arielle's death. Each year has gotten sweeter than the last, though, and this year is the first that Quentin doesn't approach Arielle's marker with tears in his eyes. "Hi, sweetheart," he whispers, the smile on his lips sad as he lays the flowers in his hands down by her stone. Eliot is a step behind him, Teddy at his side. 

Like he does every time they visit, Teddy reaches out to touch the engraving of Arielle's name, tracing the letter A with his fingertips. Quentin and Eliot carved it themselves all those years ago, using magic, but it's still a little rough and unsteady - they couldn't quite get their hands to stop shaking. "Hi, Mom," Teddy offers. "We got you flowers."

Eliot reaches out to lay a hand on Quentin's shoulder. "Your favourites," he adds.

Quentin reaches up, lays his hand over Eliot's. "The orchard's doing well; Eliot's wine is still selling faster than we can make it. Lily's taking good care of your trees."

"I'm doing great at school," Teddy tells her. "Miss Laelette says I'm the smartest in the group!" Eliot laughs behind him, and Teddy huffs. "Okay, she didn't say that. But it's still true!"

Eliot shares an indulgent smile with Quentin when he turns to look at him, and squeezes Quentin's shoulder. "We miss you," he murmurs.

"We do," Quentin agrees, reaching out to lay his other hand on Teddy's shoulder. "We still miss you _so _much, but..." Quentin turns, shares another look with Eliot, and when he smiles this time it's a little less sad. "We're doing alright."

"We're happy," Eliot goes on, because it's true. "We're doing our best to make you proud."

Teddy turns under Quentin's hand, then, and gazes up at them. "Do you think she is proud?"

Eliot's heart aches. "She's so proud of you," he says. "She loves you so much, Teddy."

"She was always so proud of everything you accomplished - even when it was swearing for your first word," Quentin says with a laugh. "I know she's still proud of you now."

"What was she like?" Teddy asks, though they've told him a thousand times.

"She was amazing," Quentin sighs. "A real spitfire, but so kind."

"You're a lot like her," Eliot says, smiling. "We see her in you every day."

"Especially when you're charming your way out of trouble," Quentin agrees, chuckling. "Your mom could charm the bad mood out of anyone, and usually get them to buy a pound or two of peaches and plums while she was at it."

"Was she pretty?" Teddy asks.

"She was beautiful," Quentin answers, smiling. "Lit up our world every time she came around before we were married."

"I wish I could remember," Teddy says, frowning.

Eliot sighs. "So do we."

Quentin draws Teddy in for a hug. “We do wish you could remember, but you were so young...” He bends down, drops a kiss to the top of Teddy’s head.

"Besides," Eliot says, "your dad and I do a good job of making sure you know all about her anyway, right?"

Teddy nods against Quentin's stomach. "Yeah."

Quentin smiles, tucks Teddy in closer and winds his other arm around Eliot's waist. "We'll never stop telling you about her," he promises, there in the quiet of the grove with only the birds and the wind to witness their family. "It's how we remember her, too." If he closes his eyes, Quentin can almost convince himself that the breeze upon his face, chilling the tears that threaten to fall, is Arielle's hand upon him once again. 

The tears fall, but there is no great sadness, only a cleansing comfort. 

* * *

Teddy grows like a weed once he turns ten; no longer short and chubby, he stretches like a beanpole and only gradually fills out again once he starts taking an interest in the local carpenter and blacksmith's workshops. The weight he packs on is all muscle, and Quentin and Eliot have a bet as to who he'll end up apprenticing under once he's of an age - Quentin is betting on Hroskr, the carpenter, convincing Teddy to his side with the delicate, subtle creativity that carpentry allows him to explore. Eliot thinks that the heat of the forge - and the frequent excuses to remove his shirt for those admirers who always throng the forge - will sway Teddy first. 

When Teddy is sixteen, he begins a courtship with Gretna, one of his classmates. She's nice enough, pretty - but she never quite warms up to Quentin and Eliot, nor they to her. Still, Teddy is _gone, _arse over teakettle for her, and his parents support him as best they can, even when Teddy returns to the cottage in furious tears one afternoon, the door slamming shut behind him as he throws himself into the chair beside Quentin's in front of the fire. "I hate Gretna," he announces, voice strangled, raw, as he buries his face in his hands. "I can't _believe - _" He cuts himself off with a choked sob. 

"Whoa, hey," Eliot says, appearing suddenly in the doorway to his and Quentin's bedroom. He exchanges a startled look with Quentin and approaches their son with caution. "What's all this?"

"I went to go see if Gretna wanted to go for a walk, down to the spring, and - " Teddy dashes away furious tears; when he lifts his head, his expression is equal parts heartbroken and furious, and has Quentin reaching for him automatically. "Her dad said she was in the stable, I went to find her, and - and she was there with _Bracken._"

Eliot is instantly livid. "That little twerp?" he demands. "What the hell is she doing with him?"

Quentin's reproachful look goes unnoticed by both Teddy and Eliot. "They were rolling around in the hay," Teddy seethes, taking his Papa's anger as permission to give his own free reign. "Their clothes were scattered all over the stable."

Eliot makes a sound of disgust. "That wanton little--"

"_Hey!_" Quentin says, tone sharp as he stares, hard, at Eliot. "I know you're upset, Teddy, and you have every right to be - but this will look worse for Gretna than it will for you, so long as _you _haven't been rolling in the hay with anyone else."

Teddy expression is still stubborn, still angry, but the way his brows furrow tell Quentin he's listening. "What are you talking about?" he asks, glancing from Quentin Eliot. 

"He's telling you not to have revenge sex," Eliot says bluntly.

Teddy frowns. "Why... would I do that?"

Quentin winces, glances at Eliot, and knows they're thinking of the same incident. "People can make bad decisions when they're upset," he says after a moment. "But that sort of decision won't make you feel better. Trust us, we've seen it before both ways."

"As much as I hate to admit it," Eliot adds, "you need to take the high road, here."

Quentin nods. "Your mom did," he offers. "Before we started courting."

Teddy's eyes widen. "What?"

"That's how they got together," Eliot explains. "She was with someone else, originally, and she caught him..." He smiles. "Holding someone else's peaches, I think is how she phrased it."

Quentin grins. "That was how she put it. El and I were already pretty fond of your mom, and so was everyone else in the village. By the time we went in to the tavern that weekend, Lunk was already being put through hell by everyone else in the village. I think he ended up leaving less than a month later."

"And then your father asked your mom out after several months of embarrassing pining, and the rest is history." Eliot smiles at their son. "What we're trying to say is, sometimes things aren't meant to work out. And sometimes, things end so that better things can follow."

Quentin laughs. "The build up to asking her to marry me was worse," he tells Teddy. "But Papa's right. It hurts, when things end. But there'll always be something new waiting for you to start."

"That doesn't mean that Gretna isn't a harlot," Eliot adds. "It just means it might be best that she's shown her true colours now."

* * *

Teddy leans on his parents for the rest of the evening, but seems to wake up the next day to the realisation that crying to your dads over a girl isn't _cool_. He's moody and sullen for the next week or so, but he doesn't mention Gretna again, so Quentin and Eliot quietly decide that he must be working through it in his own way and that everything will be all right. Nothing happens to dissuade them of this notion until Eliot returns from a quick supply run to the village to the sound of raised voices, loud enough that he hears them before he even reaches the far edge of the mosaic.

He hastens across the long-neglected frame and bursts into the cottage, only realising when he's surprised to find it that he wasn't expecting the sight of Quentin and Teddy at each other's throats to greet him. "What's all this?" he demands, instantly furious with both of them.

"Don't ask me," Quentin snaps. "He’s been in a foul mood since he got back from the village earlier."

Eliot turns to Teddy. "Well?"

Teddy raises his chin, defiant, as he turns to Eliot, arms crossed over his chest. "Gretna and Bracken are _courting_ now," he spits. 

"And that's your dad's fault, why?" Eliot demands.

"You two were talking about how what she'd done would be seen as a _bad_ thing," Teddy says mulishly. "Nobody's avoiding her, or anything like that."

Eliot exchanges a look with Quentin. "We can't control other people, Teddy," he says. "But this still doesn't reflect badly on you."

"Oh, yeah? So why's everyone _looking _at me, and whispering until I turn my head and catch them with their hands over their mouths and their eyes on my back?" Teddy demands, a harsh snarl. 

"Because they're kids," Eliot says. "They're vicious and they're stupid, but they're kids."

"They’re all _my_ age," Teddy snaps, glaring at Eliot. "You saying I'm stupid, too?"

"Of course not," Eliot says, pained. "You're _my_ kid; you're brilliant."

"But I'm not really _your _kid, am I?" Teddy sneers. "Not your blood - "

"_Theodore!_" Quentin barks, expression furious. "That's _enough._"

"How dare you?" Eliot fumes. "I've loved you since before you were born. I would die for you. Don't you dare tell me you're not mine."

"Yeah?" Teddy says, shoulders straightening as he takes a step towards Eliot, looking around Quentin, who's tried to put himself between them. "Well, even if I don't say it, it's still true."

"Get out," Eliot says, low and dangerous. "You think you're a big man, trying to get in my face with this? You're not. You're a child. Go to your fucking room."

"No, I don't think I will," Teddy snaps, already moving - not towards Eliot, but around Quentin, heading for the door of the cottage. "Why don't _you _finish that goddamn mosaic so you can fuck off to wherever you came from?" The slamming of the cottage door punctuates his parting words, and Quentin sucks in a sharp breath. 

Eliot sways in place, looking a heartbeat away from following him - but then he reins himself in, turns away from the door with a frustrated sound. "Leave him to cool off," he says, his tone clipped with fury. "He'll be back."

"I know he will," Quentin says, reaching out to lay his hand against Eliot's arm. "El. He's hurting, and he shouldn't have taken it out on you, but he doesn't mean it."

"I know," Eliot sighs. He scrubs a hand over his face. "He's not wrong, though."

"Yes, he is," Quentin says firmly, stepping closer and letting the hand on Eliot's arm slide down until he can slip his hand into Eliot's, his other reaching to curl around the back of Eliot's neck, fingers buried in the fine hairs at the nape of his neck. "He might not be yours by blood, but he _is _yours, in every way that _matters._"

Eliot sighs again, and bows his head until he can rest his forehead against Quentin's, his eyes closed. "I know," he says. "I do know. I just... never thought I'd hear him say that."

Quentin's smile is soft, sad. "He's a teenager," he points out. "I said a lot of shit to my dad that I didn't mean when I was his age. I think it's just one of those universal things."

"Can't relate," Eliot says darkly. "Everything I said to my dad at that age, I meant."

"Yeah, well, your dad was an actual bastard and deserved it," Quentin says fiercely. "You aren't. You said it yourself, we'll give him some time to cool off."

Eliot lets out a shaky breath and draws Quentin into his arms. "He was right about one thing, though," he says softly after a moment. "We can't put the mosaic off forever."

Quentin goes easily, tucking himself into that space beneath Eliot's chin where he fits so perfectly. "We can't," he murmurs. "But we also can't start working on it just because our son is pissed at the world and taking it out on us. Let's get through this before we start talking about the mosaic again, okay?"

Eliot kisses the crown of Quentin's head. "You're right," he says. "I probably shouldn't be here when he gets back, in case I strangle him."

Quentin smiles, arms tightening around Eliot. "Maybe you should take a walk, too? I'll talk to him when he comes back."

"You're a star," Eliot tells him, "my very reason for existence. Are you sure?"

Quentin smiles, tilts his head for a kiss. "I'm sure."

* * *

Quentin does talk to Teddy that night, and while things are rocky for a few days, Teddy and Eliot shy and careful around each other in a way they've never been before, they eventually return to normal. Quentin and Eliot start discussing the mosaic again, start making plans to resume working on it - and when the end of Teddy's apprenticeship with Hroskr comes, three years after that fight, Quentin knows the time has come. "He's all grown up now," Quentin says quietly as he and Eliot sit in front of their cottage, Teddy having retired to his room early. "Where has the time gone?"

Eliot shakes his head. "I don't know," he says. There's a little grey in his hair now, and in Quentin's beard, and their eyes are lined with years of laughter. "It feels like no time at all."

Quentin huffs a quiet laugh. "But it has been a long time. Our boy's all grown up," he repeats, shifting in his chair until he can face Eliot more fully. "But we still have responsibilities to take care of."

Eliot closes his eyes briefly. "I know," he says.

Quentin reaches over, lays his hand over Eliot's. "We don't have anything holding us here so tightly anymore."

"No," Eliot agrees. He turns his hand over and squeezes Quentin's. "I guess it's time."

Quentin lifts Eliot's hand so he can brush a kiss over his knuckles. "It is; it's more than time. And hey, we have a hell of a lot more life experience to draw on, now."

Eliot smiles. "Do you think they're still waiting for us?" he asks. "Do you think they've lived their whole lives without us?"

"I don't know," Quentin says, his usual thoughtful answer. "But if they have... I hope they found a way to make it even half as good as ours has been."

Eliotc laughs softly. "Me too, darling," he says. "When should we tell him?"

"Soon," Quentin sighs. "We can't spring it on him when he leaves for that trip of his."

"We might not be here when he gets back," Eliot realises.

Quentin inclines his head. "We need to prepare him for that possibility."

Eliot squeezes his hand again, harder this time. "We'll talk to him in the morning," he decides. "He's smart, like his mom. He'll know something's up if we don't tell him now."

Quentin's answering smile is sad, and he clings to Eliot's hand just as tightly. "In the morning."

* * *

Teddy takes it well, and leaves on his trip a few weeks later with the full understanding that his fathers might not be there when he returns. They say their goodbyes, they cry, they hug for far too long. They tell him that they love him, over and over again, like it's the last chance they're going to get.

It's not.

Even with their new, deepened understanding of just how beautiful life can be, they don't complete the mosaic. They go back to working on it diligently, at least one design a day, until they've exhausted the patterns they prepared whenever the mood struck while Teddy was a child and have to start making up new ones. It's impossible. But they're not in any rush, content to take their time, and they find that they can enjoy the process again in a way that they lost long before Teddy was born.

The years crawl by now where they once flew, but in a slow, dreamy sort of way. With Eliot fast approaching fifty and Quentin not far behind, they find themselves slowing down, too - but their passion has yet to burn out, for the life they've built here as well as for each other. Their devotion to each other is no secret, and the day that Teddy marries his beautiful Amaraline, he stands up in front of their combined family and friends and vows to cherish her as much as his own parents cherish each other.

Eliot and Quentin cry themselves dry that day, and on the day Teddy tells them that Amaraline is pregnant with their first child. Eliot gets the feeling that today is going to be much the same.

"Teddy," he says, dragging his son into his arms as soon as they enter the room. Amaraline's father let them into Teddy's modest little house; Amaraline herself, along with her mother and the same midwife who brought Teddy into the world, are ensconced in the master bedroom. "Are you okay? How is she?"

Teddy blows out a harsh breath, holding onto Eliot's upper arms tightly. "I feel like I'm going to vibrate out of my skin," he confesses. "It's been a smooth pregnancy, Helen doesn't see any reason why things should go wrong, and Amaraline is strong, healthy. But I still can't help but worry, not just for her health!"

"Ah," Quentin says in understanding, laying his own hand between Teddy's shoulder blades and rubbing firmly. "It's hitting you that you'll be responsible for this kid."

"That happened to us, too," Eliot soothes him. "You get over it."

Quentin barks out a laugh. "No, you fucking do not, don't lie to our son," he scolds Eliot. "You're always terrified you're going to fuck them up somehow. But you learn what you can, promise to do the best you can, and lean on those who've done it before."

"You're going to be fine," Eliot says, giving Teddy one last squeeze before he releases him. "You're about to meet your child."

"Oh gods," Teddy whimpers, staggering without Eliot to hold him up. "My _child._"

"I know," Eliot says, trying not to laugh. "Freak out all you want, but once that baby is born you're going to have to get your shit together. Your wife needs you."

Teddy nods, shoulders straightening and firming beneath Quentin's hand. "You're right," he says, determination filling him. "You're right, I - "

The hoarsest scream yet comes from the other room, and all three of them freeze. They don't move, waiting with bated breath - 

And a baby cries, shrill and piercing. 

Teddy collapses into the nearest chair, guided by his fathers' hands. "Oh gods," he whispers, gaze fixed on the door that hides his wife and still-squalling child from his view. "Oh gods. I'm not ready."

"I know," Eliot says gently. "But it's a little late for that. You need to go in there."

Teddy takes a shallow breath, and then another, deeper. His shoulders move with it, and then he pushes himself to his feet - and Quentin is proud to see that he doesn’t wobble. “Go take care of your family,” he says with an encouraging smile, hand tightening on Teddy’s shoulder in a comforting manner for a brief moment before he pushes gently.

Giving Eliot and Quentin one last, grateful look, Teddy makes his way to the door just as Helen opens it, a beaming smile on her face.

* * *

Teddy and Amaraline name their first daughter Arielle - and Eliot and Quentin are unashamed to admit to the tears in their eyes when they hear _that_ news. Little Arielle has the soft golden hair of her mother, but she has her namesake’s eyes, and when Quentin cries the first time he sees her, it’s not only because he’s holding his first grandchild. 

Teddy and Amaraline’s family grows swiftly, Arielle blessed with siblings aplenty. Quentin and Eliot’s little cottage has never been so bustling; their family visits often, and they bring welcome distractions from and helping hands for the mosaic when they do. The years pass slowly and far too quickly - and shortly after Arielle’s _own_ wedding, when Eliot is kneeling on the mosaic, cane by his side, and Quentin on the ladder, comparing the day’s progress to the design in his notebook, Quentin is startled when Eliot speaks - not that he speaks, but by what he says.

"Do you ever think about them?" he asks. "Our old life?"

"I dream about them sometimes," Quentin says slowly, suddenly aware of the age in his voice. He passed his seventy-second birthday a few months ago, and he feels every day of those years all at once. 

Eliot smiles softly. "Me too," he says. "I hope they're okay. That they found a way to fix magic without us."

Quentin sighs. "It's been years since we spoke of them, or why we came here," he murmurs. "I wonder if they're even still alive."

"They are," Eliot says, with certainty. "We'd feel it."

Quentin hums a tuneless thing. "We will," he says. "We'll feel it, when they die. Because we sure as hell aren't going to see it."

"No," Eliot agrees. "We're never going to finish this mosaic."

"But what else are we gonna do with our time?" Quentin says, a humorless laugh accompanying his words. "We've gotta keep busy."

"I'm not suggesting we stop," Eliot says. "Just that we accept what we've been ignoring for the better part of fifty years. We're never going home, Q."

”No,” Quentin disagrees, “this is our home. We’re never going _back._”

* * *

Accepting what they’ve known for decades doesn’t change all that much in the end. Quentin and Eliot still work on the mosaic, progress slowed by the aches in their joints, the way it takes longer to get to their feet, to collect their breath after the least effort. They celebrate three more anniversaries, three more years of birthdays and holidays together. 

And then, Quentin walks out of the cottage on a crisp fall day to find Eliot sitting in his chair, hands folded on his lap, leaning back - but the stillness of Eliot’s chest, the abrupt ache in his own… They tell Quentin what’s happened even before he whispers Eliot’s name, a hopeless, lost sound that falls from his lips to drop, too-heavy, on the ground.

Teddy would help, Quentin knows - their whole family would help him in this, removing Eliot from his chair, wrapping him in the first quilt they’d bought together all those decades ago, they would help dig his grave… But he needs to do this. He and Eliot started their Quest together, alone but for each other, and they’ll finish it that way.

The sound of metal against metal rings out, and Quentin pauses, frowns. Slowly, carefully, he kneels down, brushes the dirt away from the gleaming gold he can just barely glimpse, and then he draws in a sharp breath. He knows the texture of the mosaic tiles all too well, the feel of them imprinted on his skin, and as he draws the golden tile out, he christens it with tears, dripping down his cheeks, over his nose, to splash against the metal in his hand as he slowly pushes himself to his feet.

Quentin sets the tile aside - it has waited fifty years, it can wait another few hours - and resumes his task. He buries Eliot, uses magic to dig the last few feet of his grave when Quentin can bend no further, and then he slowly covers his husband’s body from sight. 

Only after Eliot’s grave marker has been erected, his name just as shaky as their Arielle’s in her marker, does Quentin take the golden tile in his hand once more. His steps are slow, halting, as he walks to the mosaic. When he places the tile in the exact middle - fifty years of working with the same grid means he doesn’t have to measure it - his hands shake. There is a moment of silence, and then the light that spills from the tile as it melts away should be blinding, but it isn’t. It’s soft, warm - but to Quentin it still _feels_ cold, without Eliot by his side to see it. 

Quentin kneels and takes the key that forms from the molten gold of the tile; it feels far, far too heavy in his hand for such a small, simple thing. He barely has time to stand, much less savor the bittersweet triumph that rushes through him before footsteps approach. Quentin looks up, half-expecting to see one of his grandchildren - 

Somehow, he’d forgotten that Jane Chatwin got the key for her pocketwatch from a man who solved the mosaic before she could even try.

Quentin gives it to her without complaint; he knows that his time to use the key is long, long past. But Jane… “You need it to defeat the Beast,” he murmurs, more to himself than her; he smiles sadly when she asks what the Beast is. “You’ll find out,” he warns her, holding the key out. “Take it.”

She does, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek in thanks, and Quentin watches her go. When the woods have swallowed her up, he turns back to the cottage and starts searching for his quill and some parchment.

He has enough strength, enough time left for one more, magical letter.

* * *

Eliot watches Margo leave the throne room with something akin to panic, but he turns away and refocuses on Quentin anyway. Margo wasn't able to give them much detail, but apparently she received some kind of note from past-Quentin or future-Quentin or a Quentin that will never exist, telling her where to find the key and to stop them from following their own path on this insane quest. Whatever. Quentin seems to be reading that note, and Eliot... can't deal with that right now. This whole day has been a hell of a mind-fuck.

He grabs a peach from the basket that came with the note, bites into it as he lowers himself to sit on the steps beneath the beautiful archway that bore witness to Margo becoming the bride of a goddamn infant earlier today, and...

"_Oh,_" he breathes.

Quentin sinks to the ground next to Eliot, gaze riveted on the note in his hands as he breathes, "I - Deja vu."

"Peaches," Eliot says, a little nonsensically. Is this what a stroke feels like? "Peaches and plums."

"Peaches and plums," Quentin echoes - and he looks just as lost, just as _overwhelmed _\- as Eliot feels. "That... _How_..."

Eliot can't even think. "I got so old," he says.

Quentin's head whips around, gaze snapping to meet Eliot's, pain clear in its depths. "You _died,_" he says, stricken. 

There isn't much Eliot can say to that, but he aches with it anyway. "You... had a wife," he offers.

Quentin shakes his head, not a denial but an expression of disbelief. "We had a family," he whispers, gaze turning distant. "How - how long... How do we _remember_ this?"

"I don't know," Eliot admits. "Was it real?"

"Fifty years," Quentin says quietly, gaze dropping to the tile beneath their feet. Slowly, he looks back up, meets Eliot's eyes, and there's something behind them, something that shouldn't be familiar but is.

Eliot swallows hard, looks away. "It was real."

Silence falls over them, each lost in their recovered memories. Eventually, Quentin breaks the silence. "It was... sort of beautiful," he says, quiet and slow; distant.

Eliot finds himself smiling softly at that. "It really was."

Quentin licks his lips, glances at Eliot before letting his gaze drop to the parchment still in his hand. He takes in a deep breath, holds it for a moment before he speaks. "I know this sounds... dumb, but... us. We - " He pauses, takes another breath; when he speaks again, there's a slight, uncertain tremor to his voice. "You know, just think about it. Like, we, we work." Quentin looks up then, up until he can meet Eliot's gaze. There's something warm and shy in his eyes as he continues. "And we know it cause we've lived it. Who gets that kind of - proof of concept?"

Eliot leans forward a little, rests his elbows on his knees. He steels himself. "We were just injected with... a half-century of emotion," he says carefully, "so I get that maybe you're not thinking clearly."

Quentin shakes his head, gaze lifting to meet Eliot’s and then skittering away. "No, I mean - What if we... What if we gave it a shot?" His gaze finds Eliot's once more, and he's never been more of an open book than he is in this moment, nerves and hope warring behind his eyes. "I mean, would it be that crazy?" He licks his lips again, shifts so that he's facing Eliot more fully. When he speaks, it's barely more than a whisper. "Why the fuck not?"

Panic thuds dully against Eliot's chest. "I-- I know you," he says, the words like sawdust in his mouth, "and you... aren't..."

Quentin shakes his head minutely, expression twisting briefly. "What's it matter?" he says, looking at Eliot almost pleadingly. 

"Don't be naive, it matters," Eliot says sharply. The look on Quentin's face then makes him want to die, and he almost falters - but he can't. "Q, come on. I love you, but..." He swallows. "You have to know that that's not me, and that's _definitely_ not you, not when... not when we have a choice."

Quentin blinks, rocking back a little in his seat. He doesn't say anything for a moment, searching Eliot's gaze - but he doesn't see any hesitation, can't make himself trust the memories that shouldn't exist, can’t bring himself to push and call Eliot a liar. "Okay," he whispers, gaze dropping as he turns away, does his best to breathe through the aching tightness in his chest. "Okay. Sorry, I - " He takes in a breath that should be deep but he can't find the room in his chest for it. Quentin reaches up, rubs at the stinging inner corner of his eye and takes another breath, finds that this one isn't any easier. "You're right, it... Getting fifty years of emotions all at once probably isn't - isn't the best time to be... impulsive."

Eliot finds it in himself to smile, though he knows it looks terrible, pained and patronising all at once. "Exactly," he says. He takes a breath. "It's been a long day. Why don't we just go to bed?"

That aching tightness gets worse, until Quentin feels like he can't breathe at all, is going to suffocate under it. "Okay," he whispers, quiet but still far too loud in the otherwise silent room. "That's - Yeah. That's probably a good idea." He pushes himself abruptly to his feet, staggers when his vision goes spotty, but recovers quickly. "I - I'll see you later, El - iot." 

Parchment crumpled in hand, Quentin leaves - all but flees. He doesn't look back. 

* * *

Eliot spends as much time as he can with Margo the next day. He hasn't told her everything, hasn't really told her much of anything, but she's got enough going on and it helps to throw himself back into the drama of running a country while under a fairy queen's thumb. Still, he can only put Quentin off for so long. They've forced him into a ridiculous guard's uniform to try to keep him under the radar, and left him to his own devices while he works on the next stage of the quest, but the longer they're apart the more antsy Eliot feels. If the Fairy Queen discovers Quentin's presence, they're all fucked.

The sooner they can get Quentin out of here, the better - for more than one reason.

Eliot finds him toward the end of the day, still wearing that awful uniform. He doesn't mean to creep up on him, but Quentin jumps when he sees him, and Eliot, embarrassed, says the first thing that comes to mind. "You look hot." He winces. "In the-- the uniform. God. You can take the hat off, you know."

Quentin snorts before he catches himself, something just off-center in his chest twisting. "Need to keep it on in case anyone comes looking," he mutters without looking directly at Eliot. "Need something?"

"Just checking in," Eliot says, as lightly as he can. "Any progress on the next key?"

Quentin sighs. "Yeah, but - not here." He glances around, makes sure that no one's around, and gestures for Eliot to follow him. He leads Eliot down a couple of halls to a secluded alcove that no one ever passes except during mealtimes, when the servants take food from the kitchens. "Okay, so," he starts, pulling a map from his pocket and unfolding it over a chair he drags over from a nearby corner. "Everything I've been able to find says that the fourth key should be somewhere in this stretch of ocean called the Abyss." Quentin draws a circle with his finger around the area in question, staring at the map and speaking without looking at Eliot. "It's an uncharted region of Fillory where it's sort of, like... permanently nighttime? But, you know, we get to go on a quest on a magical boat, so - "

"Uhh." Eliot cuts him off, has to, because he can't stand to let Quentin take that thought any further. He at least manages to sound regretful. "Yeah, no. Duty calls in a dozen different ways, and I can't leave Margo."

Quentin blinks, manages an awkward laugh a heartbeat too late. "Oh, right. Yeah, I mean, I was looking forward to going on a boating quest with you..."

"Who wouldn't," Eliot teases, and then scrambles to try again when it falls horribly flat. "But hey. You can take Benedict--" _Benedict?_ "--with you, go be life partners with someone else for a bit. And," he gets his arm around Quentin, pulls him against his side, "you'll be able to do the thing on the prow of a ship you've been waiting your whole life to do."

Quentin's so caught off-guard by Eliot's use of the phrase 'life partners' that he doesn't even think to resist letting Eliot pull him in. He relaxes into Eliot's warmth for a split second before the rest of what he'd said catches up with Quentin. "Wait. What thing?"

"You know what thing," Eliot says. He presses a kiss to Quentin's forehead and closes his eyes, lets himself just be for a moment.

Quentin holds his breath for a moment before he lets it out slowly. None of the tension still coiled within himself eases, the memory of every time Eliot had held him like this in that life they didn't live stealing any comfort from the gesture. "Keep Margo safe," he murmurs after a moment. "Gonna need her to kick the Fairy Queen's ass."

Eliot smiles. "Always."

* * *

Things go wrong almost as soon as Quentin and Benedict step foot on the dragon nesting island. The woman who greets them, Poppy, is another member of the missing Brakebills class, trapped in Fillory after that doomed spring break trip. She tells Quentin her story over several rounds of drinks - and when Quentin wakes in the morning, he holds the Darkness Key, and the demons that have plagued him all his life have a new way of doing so. Poppy explains what the key is, what it does before she leaves them high and dry, and Quentin grits his teeth and starts planning.

The illusion that continually follows him is difficult to deal with, but not extraordinarily so. Quentin has a plan, inspired by Odysseus' tale, and it very nearly works - until Benedict touches the key.

Immediately, the illusion that had worn his own face vanishes, and Quentin is unable to do anything but watch in horror as Benedict flings himself over the side of the ship - and is greeted with a dragon's jaws. He... honestly doesn't remember much of how he gets back to Fillory, nor how he makes his way back to the quarters he'd lived in when he'd been King Quentin. He doesn't get discovered by the Fairy Queen, that much is obvious, but he doesn't go unnoticed, either, as he finds out when a brief knock at his door is the only warning he gets before it swings open to reveal Eliot standing on the other side.

Quentin relaxes his grip on the knife at his side at the sight of Eliot, something in him settling in a way that he doesn't want to think too closely about. "Oh, it's you," he sighs. "Get in here before someone sees you."

"Neither of us should be in here," Eliot says, closing the door behind him. "Are you trying to get caught?"

Quentin snorts. "No, I just - I needed some space to get my head on straight," he says, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Everything went wrong, and Benedict's fucking _dead_, so excuse me for needing to get myself together."

Eliot's expression softens, and he grasps Quentin gently by the elbow, guides him over to the bed. "What happened?" he asks.

Quentin’s so exhausted he doesn’t even flinch when Eliot touches him, barely seems to even notice he’s done so. “We found a dragon breeding island, and another one of Josh’s classmates,” he starts with, barely more than a mutter. “She knew about the key, said she had it. Told us her story over some drinks, and…” He sighs. “I woke the next morning with the key in my hand and my doppelganger telling me that I was never going to finish this quest.”

Eliot blinks. "What do you mean?"

"It was called the Darkness Key because it pulled the deepest, darkest parts of yourself out into the light and hounded you to death with them," Quentin says bitterly. "Mine was just everything my broken brain says on a weekly basis. But I was handling it, and then... Benedict touched the key, and it shifted its attention to him. Started showing him his darkness, and he couldn't handle it. I couldn't stop him from jumping."

"He killed himself?" Eliot whispers, stricken.

"Jumped overboard and got eaten by a dragon - with the key in his hand," Quentin confirms, tone dull. 

"Oh my god," Eliot breathes. "I-- Do you know what he saw?"

Quentin shakes his head, reaches up with one shaky hand to run his fingers through his hair. "He just... He touched the key, froze, and then bolted."

"Hey," Eliot says, catching Quentin's hand between both of his own. "You're home, now. Are you still seeing it, the... doppelganger?"

Quentin draws in a deep breath, lets it out slowly. "No. The key only showed that to whoever touched it last, it wasn't a... permanent thing." He shrugs, glances up just barely long enough to give Eliot a wry smile. "It was just saying what I already hear, though."

"So it lied to you," Eliot says, firm and sure. "Because that's what your brain does when it breaks. We've talked about this."

"Yeah, well, it's a little harder to ignore when that voice has a face and is standing right in front of you," Quentin mutters, gaze dropping to the bedspread. 

"It's gone," Eliot says. "Listen to me instead. None of what that thing said is true, Quentin."

”I know that,” Quentin says defensively. “It’s why I’m still here and not in that dragon’s belly myself.”

"Q," Eliot says, frowning. "Don't."

"Don't _what?_"

"This is me," Eliot says. "I know things are... not great, right now, for a number of reasons, but you can still talk to me."

Quentin's expression remains mulish, his jaw clenched for another moment before he blows out a harsh breath. "It was just... hard. I can't remember the last time I took my meds, and we've been so caught up in... in _everything,_ it drowned out that little voice. Can’t remember the last time I heard it so clearly."

"We can send word to the others," Eliot offers. "Make sure that they have a prescription ready for when you go back."

"That would be good," Quentin says, glancing up at Eliot. He's not quite smiling, but the line of his jaw is softer, his expression not quite as pinched as it had been. "Thanks."

Eliot squeezes Quentin's hand. "We're here for you, Q," he says, achingly earnest. "You need to come to us when you're struggling."

“I know,” Quentin says, and now he does smile - barely a tilt of his lips, but it’s there nonetheless. “I know. I’ve been okay, mostly, until the key and Benedict, but if I need to talk, I will.”

"Good," Eliot says. He sighs. "I think what you need is a hot bath, and a good night's sleep."

”Yeah, that does sound nice,” Quentin hums. “But _you_ need to get going; we don’t want the Queen getting suspicious.”

But Eliot hesitates. "I could stay," he offers. "You've been through a lot the last few days. I'm not sure you should be alone right now."

Quentin’s smile turns a bit stiff, his gaze shuttering. “No, I’ll be fine. I’ll let you know if I’m not, but... I really don’t feel like company right now, Eliot.”

Eliot looks pained, but he nods. "All right," he says. "I'll come find you tomorrow. Don't go wandering about the palace, okay?"

"I won't," Quentin promises. 

* * *

They don't really talk much after that, at least not about anything deep and meaningful. Quentin goes back to Earth to pick up his medication and help track down the Darkness key, and Eliot stays behind with Margo to deal with the Fairy Queen and the general running of Fillory. Everything gets kind of dramatic after that, for everyone involved, and Eliot kind of loses track of everyone who isn't him and Margo until...

Until he's standing in Castle Blackspire, surrounded by his friends, with his heart in his mouth. Everything is in total chaos. Margo caught Alice trying to snort fairy bone dust so that she could destroy the keys, and the others are currently arguing over what to do with her, but that's only a distant concern right now - because Eliot followed Quentin when he left with the castle's jailer, and he's currently pointing a gun at the hateful thing threatening to take Quentin away from him.

Gods, he prays this works.

There's a shift in the air, the only warning Eliot gets before there's a hand over his on the gun, magic keeping him from making any noise. Julia stands beside him, her eyes rimmed with gold as she looks from Eliot to Quentin, who's standing in front of the Monster, cards flicking through his fingers. When she looks back at Eliot, her expression is hard, just as determined as his own. "Pull the trigger," she murmurs, her hand growing almost unbearably hot where it covers his on the gun. "Now."

So Eliot does - and the Monster drops.

”_No!_” Quentin and Ora shout in unison, Ora rushing forward to the Monster’s body - only to be frozen by Julia, her fingers moving so fast they’re a blur as she catches the golden mist that began to rise from the Monster’s body, shrinks it and shrinks it until with a sound like thunder echoing in the mountains, it implodes. 

Julia flicks her hand and releases Ora, who whirls on her. “What have you done?” she cries. “If he’s escaped - “

”It’s dead,” Julia interrupts, shoulders straight. “It would have tried to possess you when you reached its body - and the man it possessed all those years ago was lost, regardless.”

”_Jules,_” Quentin says, pained - but then he looks at Eliot, seems to take in the gun in his hand for the first time, and his expression hardens. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

"I was thinking that I couldn't let you sacrifice yourself like that," Eliot says. He looks badly shaken. "But we can talk about that later. Aren't we supposed to be saving magic?"

Quentin looks like he’s about two seconds away from saying _Fuck the magic,_ but he reins himself in at the last possible moment. “Fine,” he growls, stalking towards the door. “Let’s fucking go, then.”

* * *

When they return to the fountain room, Kady is literally sitting on Alice’s hands - “She tried to cast, I swear,” she says, her own eyes wide and innocent when Quentin looks at her through narrowed eyes - while Margo, Josh, and Penny are in the middle of an argument about whether to go after Eliot and Quentin. That argument is, obviously, tabled when they catch sight of Julia, Eliot, and Quentin standing in the doorway. Julia takes control of the situation, freezing Alice to the wall with a few swift movements before distributing the keys to everyone. 

The rush of magic is nearly overwhelming, and they’re all so caught up in it that they don’t immediately notice their new companions until they’re choking on the ground - but only for a moment. The pressure around their throats ceases abruptly, and by the time they turn around, Julia is standing over the crumpled, unconscious bodies of Dean Fogg and two Librarians. She rifles through the man’s pockets, makes a satisfied noise when she finds a small orb, and promptly crushes it between her hands. She turns to the fountain and, ignoring Penny’s “What the _fuck_,” begins moving her hands in an elaborate series of poppers and tuts. The powder in her hands turns brilliant gold instead of dull silver, lifting from Julia’s hands to spread over the fountain, encasing it in a golden bubble that solidifies into place with a final _snap_ of Julia’s fingers. 

The orb was a device meant to capture all of the magic that the Fountain is currently returning to all the worlds, and direct it to the Library so that it had full, exclusive control over magic. Julia used the powdered orb to, instead, create a barrier that prevents anyone with intentions to alter the flow of the Wellspring in any way from passing through, and allows no magical artifacts of any kind through. They already knew that the Library wanted to control all magic, but what they _didn't _know was that Fogg intended to erase their memories once the Library had what it wanted. It takes quite a while to calm everyone’s outrage, but Julia promises to take care of the Library and the Librarians, and urges everyone else to get some rest; they’ve been running on adrenaline for far too long, she says, and they’re all about to crash. She isn’t wrong.

Penny Travels them all to Castle Whitespire, where they go their separate ways. Alice is taken to the dungeons to await further judgement, and everyone else retires to their rooms to rest and recover from the weeks of desperate Questing. 

Castle Whitespire is seldom quiet, even in the middle of the night, but tonight… Quentin is far, far too restless to sleep, even if it were dead silent. His thoughts are swirling far too fast to make any sense of them, and in desperation, he turns to alcohol - which doesn’t help much. Drunk on wine that tastes far too similar to a drink Eliot never made, Quentin’s thoughts are still an angry storm, his very _self_ a brittle thing that threatens to break under the weight of his emotions. He needs to get rid of the pressure, needs to - 

He needs to talk to Eliot.

The realization hits like a bolt of lightning. All of his problems, the angry, hurt, _betrayed_ emotions that he’s feeling? They’re all Eliot’s fault. If he talks to Eliot, tells him what he’s done to Quentin - Quentin will feel better, might even be able to sleep. 

Course decided, Quentin strides from his room with confident steps born of alcohol and righteous fury. It’s not a far journey to Eliot’s rooms, and Quentin tells the guard at the end of the hallway to make sure that they aren’t disturbed before he raises his fist and knocks on Eliot’s door hard enough to shake it on its hinges.

Quentin has to knock again twice before Eliot answers the door, looking for all the world like he's feeling just as tortured right now as Quentin is. "Q," he breathes, visibly relieved at the sight of him. "Thank God. Get in here."

Quentin storms inside, all but shaking in rage - some of his turmoil had eased at the sight of Eliot, and he kinda hates that fact. As soon as the door has swung shut again, Quentin casts a one-way soundproofing charm, and rounds on Eliot. "What the _fuck _were you doing with that goddamn fucking gun, Eliot?" he snarls, hands clenched into fists at his sides. 

Eliot's eyes widen, clearly taken aback by the outburst. "I think the results speak for themselves," he says.

"_Why?_" Quentin snaps. "That was my choice, Eliot! You had no goddamn right."

"It was the wrong choice," Eliot snaps back, "it was the broken brain choice! I told you, I couldn't let you do that to yourself."

"So you know best _again,_ is that it?" Quentin spits, arms crossed over his chest as he glares at Eliot. "Making my fucking choices for me?"

"Why would you _want_ to make that choice?" Eliot asks. "Are you seriously mad at me for saving you from having to spend the rest of eternity playing nursemaid to that-- that _thing_?"

"I'm mad at you for going behind my back!" Quentin retorts. "For making that choice without even asking me why I was making it! For your fucking information it was because it was the right thing to do, to get magic back." Alcohol loosens Quentin's tongue, and he adds with a sneer, "I would have thought _you'd _understand sacrificing your life for the sake of the Quest."

Eliot doesn't flinch, but it's a near thing. "I know why you did it, Q," he insists. "But I saw a way out for you, and I took it. Is that such an awful thing?"

”What if Julia hadn’t turned up?” Quentin demands. “You saw that she had to kill the Monster herself. What would you have done if it had possessed someone else because you shot it and destroyed its body?”

"I--" Eliot's mouth works silently for a moment. "I don't know. I didn't think that far ahead."

”Exactly!” Quentin snaps. “You didn’t fucking _think_ about any of this - and you lost the right to make _any_ kind of decisions for me after Margo stopped us from going after the Time Key.”

Eliot's jaw drops. "_What?_"

”We aren’t married here, Eliot,” Quentin says, voice hard. “And you made it perfectly fucking clear that you didn’t want to even _think_ about that time - which, you know what? _Fuck_ you for that, for acting like Arielle and Teddy never existed for us. And double-fuck you for saying ‘I love you’ for the first goddamn time when you’re _breaking up with me._”

"Q," Eliot breathes. He looks stricken, like Quentin just slapped him right in the face. "It wasn't like that."

”No? Then what the hell _was_ it like, Eliot? Because that’s what it looked like from where I was sitting.”

"Of course I remember them," he says, very quietly. "Of course they meant... _everything_. I miss them every day."

”Yeah? Well you could’ve fooled me,” Quentin says bitterly. “I couldn’t even come talk to you about how much I missed them because you made me think that you wanted to forget that we had those memories.” He swallows, hard, and finds his gaze drifting, off to the side - and then he freezes when he catches sight of a quilt on Eliot’s bed. It’s hauntingly familiar; in the life that wasn’t, they’d slept under that quilt for fifty years. Quentin had _buried_ Eliot in that quilt. Anger spiking again, Quentin stalks closer to Eliot’s bed, lifts the corner of the quilt and turns to glare at Eliot. “What the fuck is this?”

Real panic spikes in Eliot's chest now. "Quentin," he says, low and urgent. "Q, please--"

Quentin shakes the quilt at Eliot. “_What the fuck is this?_” he snarls. “You’re not fucking _blind,_ Eliot. I know you know what this _goddamn_ looks like!”

"Of course I know what it looks like," Eliot says. His voice is shaking. "Please, just-- I can't do this right now, okay?"

”_You_ can’t do this right now?” Quentin repeats, incredulous. “No, Eliot. I’m not gonna just - just stand here and stammer and then run away this time. Why do you have our quilt on your damn bed?”

"Because I miss you!" Eliot shouts. His eyes are burning, but he doesn't try to stop the tears when they come. "Fucking-- _Christ_, Q, did you think I could just walk away from that and not give a shit? You were my _husband_, we had a _son_, I spent fifty years of my goddamn life with you and then I died!"

”So your solution to that was to push me away and act like you wanted nothing to do with that?” Quentin demands. “To just... shoot me right out of the saddle when I asked you to give it another go and then try to act like everything was _normal_?” 

"Yes!" Eliot cries. "I was scared! I was fucking terrified, is that what you want to hear?"

"No, I want to hear what the hell happened to make you decide that getting this fucking quilt was more acceptable than talking to the guy you actually lived through all that shit with," Quentin retorts; his grip on the quilt is tight, harsh, and he makes himself relax it, let the fabric go before he tears it. "You _know _me, Eliot. Better than even Julia does at this point. If I can't bottle everything up and try to force myself through the bad days then you don't fucking need to, either." 

But Eliot doesn't have an answer for him. He shakes his head. "I just figured we needed a clean break."

Quentin barks a laugh, sharp and brittle as shattered glass. "That's kind of impossible," he says. "We were _married. _And everything we went through before we even left for the mosaic..." He shakes his head. "Would've only been a clean break if we hadn't seen each other after."

"I know," Eliot says. "But I wasn't strong enough for that."

"And why not?" Quentin asks - it would be a demand, but he just sounds... tired, now. "Why didn't you make it a clean break, why did you - why did you keep acting like we had been before Margo stopped us, why did you try to kill something that even a god-killing bullet couldn't finish off? Why did you buy this goddamn _fucking _quilt?"

"Because I fucking love you," Eliot says, utterly helpless.

Quentin looks at Eliot, pain and frustration warring in his gaze. "Are you ever going to say that when you aren't breaking my heart?"

Eliot starts forward, almost reaches for Quentin before he stops himself. "I'm not trying to hurt you," he says. "I never meant for that. Please believe me."

Quentin sighs, gaze dropping to the floor, but he doesn't move, doesn't put the distance Eliot closed back between them. "I believe that. But you did, anyway." He hesitates, then looks up, licking his lips in a nervous tic. "Why is loving me so scary?" he asks quietly. "Is the idea of a life with me here and now really so frightening?"

"Yes," Eliot says honestly. "Not because of you, you're-- God." He passes a hand over his face, braces his other hand against his hip, and turns away from Quentin for a moment. "I'm a fuck-up, Q. I destroy everything I touch. We worked at the mosaic because we were all we had, before and after Arielle. We understood each other in a world where no one else ever could. But in this world? I wasn't wrong when we got back. You have options here that you didn't have there. You don't need to saddle yourself to someone like me."

"Options like what?" Quentin asks, suspicious. 

"Like whatever you want," Eliot says. "Girls, for example."

Anger which had just started to fade flares bright and hot in Quentin's chest once more. "_Seriously?_" he demands, arms crossing over his chest as he glares at Eliot with a renewed intensity. "I'm fucking _bi,_ Eliot. I was the one who kissed you that night on the mosaic. I was the one who asked you to marry me, and _I_ was the one who asked you to do it all again under that arch. What the _fuck _else do you need to get that?"

Eliot seems to shrink before Quentin's eyes. "All right," he says. "All right, that was stupid, I'm sorry. But my point still stands. You're not trapped in a cottage with me, you're not on a quest anymore. Magic is back. You're finally free to live your life again."

”And that automatically means that I can’t choose to live it with you?”

"I'm a fucking mess, Q," Eliot says. "I'm a recovering addict, I'm paranoid, I'm possessive, I'm selfish, I'm so fucking high-maintenance. Margo is the light of my existence and even she hates me sometimes. I almost lost her after Mike - I almost lost _you_ after Mike. You shouldn't want to be anywhere near me, and if you really thought about it, you'd agree."

"And you think I _haven't _thought about it?" Quentin demands. "That I didn't think about it before that first kiss?"

"Well, did you?"

"I've thought about it since you told me that if I got kicked out of Brakebills, you would come find me in the mundane world and seduce me," Quentin says, a soft confession. "After the bottles... I tried not to, because of Alice. But while she was dead, I - I started thinking about it again. At the mosaic, I figured... Why not? Why not go for it?"

"Why not, indeed." Eliot's mouth twists. "There was no reason not to, there. But we're not there anymore, Q."

"What, you think all of the reasons you listed before didn't exist at the mosaic?" Quentin snorts. "I knew they did. You can be a really goddamn mean son of a bitch, Eliot, and I knew that going into the Quest, and going into our marriage. And I know that now."

Eliot looks away. "I wasn't trying to be mean," he says. "That day. I was trying to protect us both."

Quentin sighs. "I get that. I don't exactly agree with it, but I get it." The two of them are quiet for several long moments before Quentin speaks again. "I love you, El," he says quietly, without looking at Eliot. "I do. But I - I don't know where we go from here."

Eliot feels like he might cry again. "You haven't called me that since we remembered."

"I haven't felt like I could," Quentin says honestly. "I put myself out there, and you shot me down, Eliot. And then, before I could try to figure out how to be normal after all of that, you were - you were acting like you had at the mosaic, pulling me in close and being affectionate. I felt like I was being jerked around, and I. I never had a chance to get my head on straight."

"I'm sorry," Eliot whispers. "I know this is my fault. I put up those boundaries and I pushed you away, but I... I couldn't stop myself from wanting you close to me."

Quentin doesn’t say anything for a moment, too busy studying Eliot intently. “What do you want now?” he asks eventually. “Not what you think is going to happen now, but… What do _you_ really, truly want now that magic is back and we don't have a threat hanging over our heads?”

Eliot can't let himself answer that, at least not directly. Instead, he says, "Ask me again why I stopped you from becoming the Monster's jailer."

Quentin searches Eliot's face for a moment, clearly debating pushing his original question. In the end, he decides against it. "Why did you kill the Monster, El?" he asks, quiet voice easily heard in the stillness of Eliot's room.

"Because if I didn't, you were going to leave me," Eliot answers. "I couldn't stand the thought of losing you."

Quentin sucks in a sharp breath. “But you couldn’t _talk_ to me? Tell me that? You already knew how I felt, Eliot.”

"No I didn't," Eliot says. "I wasn't kidding that day - we had just been injected with fifty years of memories and emotions. Who we were in that timeline is not who we are now, even if we remember it."

”I told you, I didn’t just kiss you on the mosaic because we were trapped there.” Quentin takes in a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “I kissed you because I’d wanted to for a _long_ time. I knew what I was getting into, with you. What I _wanted_ to get into with you. And I - You’re right, we aren’t the same people, but I was more than halfway in love with you before we left for the mosaic, El. We didn’t work at the mosaic because we were trapped - we worked because we worked _for_ it. It wasn’t all peaches and plums.”

Eliot laughs, a wet, choked sound. "I know that," he says. "But it'd be even harder now."

"_Why?_" Quentin asks, exasperated now. "Why does it have to be so different, so much harder now?"

Eliot gives him a soft, sad smile. "Because even if our lives weren't infinitely more complicated here than they were at the mosaic, I'm me, and you're you. We had more peace and happiness in those fifty tears than we were ever meant to have."

"So you're saying we're doomed to fail, is that it?" Quentin says, incredulous. "Just because... what? We're the same people we were before the mosaic? We made it work then, Eliot. We can make it work now. But we have to want it and actually _work for _it."

"There's something you need to know about me," Eliot says, very seriously. "When I'm scared, I run away."

Quentin spent fifty years of a life that didn't happen with the man standing across from him, but in this moment, he understands more about Eliot than he ever had before. His eyes widen, and he sucks in a sharp breath - and takes a step forward, towards Eliot. "If anyone knows anything about running away, it's me," he says slowly, carefully. "But sometimes, chasing someone who's running away isn't the best thing to do. Sometimes it's better to make sure they know they can always come back." Taking another breath, another step, Quentin asks, "Which do you need me to do, to prove just how serious I am about this - about you?"

Eliot swallows hard, steels himself, and says, "Catch me."

His heart in his throat, Quentin closes the distance between them, reaches out to take Eliot's hand in his. "I love you, Eliot Waugh," he says, quiet but with no less conviction. "I know you, and all of your flaws - and all of your virtues. And I love you _because _of all of them, good and bad. We've already gotten our proof of concept, fifty years and a full life together. And if you want to, I'd like to do it all again."

Eliot closes his eyes. "I'm still fucking terrified," he says, "but I love you, too. If today taught me anything, it's that I can't stand to watch you walk away."

Quentin laughs, just once, and softly, without any hint of malice. “Then I won’t,” he promises. “As long as there’s a choice, I won’t. But I need you to _talk_ to me, El. Don’t make big decisions for me, and don’t shut me out. I can catch you, but you need to let me in when I do, or tell me that you need some time.”

"It's not going to be easy," Eliot warns him. "I'm not brave like you."

"No, you're not - you're brave like _you. _All I'm asking is that you talk to me, El, even if it's just to say 'I can't talk about this right now,' or 'I need time,'" Quentin says with a small smile. "We can figure the rest out as we go."

Eliot smiles back. "Okay," he says. "I promise I'll try."

"Good." Quentin takes a deep breath, and when he looks back at Eliot his expression is shy, uncertain. "I am... really tired, and still a little bit tipsy. Do you think we - Could we go to bed? Just to sleep, but... I haven't been sleeping well ever since we remembered."

Eliot's expression softens. "Yeah," he says. "Whatever you need, Q."

Quentin frowns slightly. "Is that what _you _want to do?" he presses. "I don't want you doing things just to - to make something up to me, or just because I want to do them."

Eliot shakes his head. "This is all I've wanted since I got my memories back," he admits.

Quentin relaxes, smiles. “Okay,” he murmurs. He takes a step back, keeps his hand in Eliot’s to pull Eliot with him. “Let’s go lie down.”

* * *

Eliot can't remember the last time he woke up next to Quentin, but he can remember that it felt exactly like this. He's warm, calm, utterly well-rested for the first time in months. For the first several long moments of wakefulness, he's too relaxed to even open his eyes, feels like he's just melting right into the mattress - but then he feels Quentin shift beside him, and he has to look. He has to know this isn't just the lingering remnants of a dream.

Quentin is watching him when he finally opens his eyes, and Eliot can't help the smile that completely takes over his face. "Hi," he whispers.

Quentin, for his part, seems to finally be losing that haunted, hunted look that's been plaguing him since they remembered that other life. When Eliot finally opens his eyes, Quentin returns his smile with a small one of his own. "Hi," he murmurs. "Sleep well?"

"Better than I have since that life we didn't live," Eliot says, sleepy and honest. "Did you?"

"Yeah, I did," Quentin admits, his thumb sweeping over Eliot's shoulder. He licks his lips, glances up to meet Eliot's gaze. "I missed this," he whispers. 

"Me too," Eliot whispers back. "I'm so sorry, Q."

Quentin sighs. "You don't need to apologize again," he says. "I get why you did what you did."

Eliot huffs a soft laugh. "Then what am I supposed to do?" he asks.

"Don't do it again?" Quentin suggests. "Actions speak louder than words, and all that. But I... I want us to move forward. Not stay stuck in the past - either of them."

"I miss it," Eliot admits quietly. "I miss our little house and our family and our _life_."

"I miss it, too," Quentin sighs. The hand on Eliot's shoulder shifts, slides down his arm until Quentin can tangle their fingers together. "I miss everyone from the village, and I miss Teddy, Amaraline, all the grandkids... I miss them all."

"I miss us, too," Eliot goes on. He shuffles closer to Quentin until they're sharing a pillow, but resists the urge to close the remaining distance. "I miss you."

Quentin's breath catches in his throat. "I miss you, too," he breathes, lets the pain of just how _much _he misses Eliot show in his voice. 

The look on Quentin's face makes Eliot ache. "Then what are we doing?" he asks. "Why are we missing each other when we're right here?"

Quentin shakes his head, a minute movement. “I - I can’t,” he whispers. “I can’t make that move, El, I’ve - I put myself out there and you turned me down, and I know everything we said last night, but...”

Eliot shushes him, reaching out with a gentle hand to touch his face. "It's okay," he murmurs. "It's okay, Q. It's my turn to be brave." And then he kisses him.

Quentin gasps into the kiss, his arm shifting until he can wrap it around Eliot’s waist, press himself closer into the next kiss. “_El,_” he sobs. “Eliot, I - “

"I know," Eliot says, gentling Quentin with the hand on his face like his own heart isn't racing. "_Sweetheart_, it's okay."

”I love you,” Quentin blurts, like he can’t _not_ say it. “I love you, _I love you._”

"I love you, too," Eliot tells him - and then starts to laugh. "Darling, I love you so much."

"What's so funny?" Quentin demands, though he's smiling too, an automatic response to Eliot's own joy. 

"Nothing," Eliot says, still laughing. "Everything. I just-- I wasted so much fucking time, Q."

Quentin snorts, leans in for another kiss. "We both did. But we're here now."

Eliot grants him the kiss, and a few more besides. "I love you," he breathes when they come back up for air. "I'm never going to stop saying that."

"Good," Quentin says fiercely, holding Eliot close. "I don't ever want to stop hearing it."

* * *

True to his word, Eliot keeps saying it over the course of the day, whenever the mood strikes. It strikes the most while they're still in bed, where Eliot can breathe the words into Quentin's skin, murmur them against his lips, laugh them into the space between their grinning mouths. They don't do anything except talk and kiss, but they do a lot of both, leaving the safety of Eliot's rooms only when absolutely necessary to flag down someone and ask for breakfast and lunch to be brought to them. It's pretty much the perfect day.

Margo demands their presence for dinner, though, so they make themselves get dressed and put in an appearance. Given that they've only been back in Whitespire for a day, Margo has put on quite a spread for them, but as soon as they've been dished up Eliot starts collecting his broccoli. "Asparagus," he says, nudging his plate towards Quentin's.

Quentin's already got a neat pile of the stuff ready to go, and he scoots his plate towards Eliot without taking his attention off of Margo. "So, you _seriously _got elected because you supported Fray's relationship with a talking bear?"

Eliot performs the switch seamlessly while Margo watches. "Yeah," she says slowly. "Humbledrum's a real sweetheart. I'm sorry, what just happened?"

Eliot looks up. "You know I hate broccoli."

"Of course I do," Margo says, "but that doesn't explain _that_."

"I don't like asparagus," Quentin says, spearing a piece of broccoli with his fork. "So we swapped. Can't let good food go to waste."

"But... how?"

Eliot slides his gaze to Quentin, his eyes wide. "I guess we... talked about it, at some point?"

Quentin freezes with a piece of broccoli halfway to his mouth. "Yeah," he agrees, though it sounds choked. "Just... One of those... little conversations? I don't remember when we talked about it."

"Me neither," Eliot says, too quickly.

Margo's eyes narrow. "What is up with you two?"

Quentin tries on his best innocent look. "What do you mean?"

"You're both being fucking weird."

"No we aren't," Quentin says, doing his best not to tense up under Margo's scrutiny. "You just haven't seen us eat together before."

Margo searches them both. "I don't know if I trust this," she says at last.

"Well, you should," Eliot says. "Bambi, you're the one being weird. We're just trying to enjoy our meal."

It still takes a long moment, but at last Margo relaxes. "Okay," she says. "I'm not above admitting that this High King business has made me a little paranoid. But if there's something going on, I _will_ find out."

"Of course you will," Quentin says, because that's a given. "But everything's fine, Margo."

"Exactly," Eliot says, returning his attention pointedly to his plate. "Let's talk about something else."

* * *

Margo continues watching them closely whenever she has the attention to spare, but Eliot and Quentin do their level best to pretend that nothing’s wrong, and that they aren’t bothered by her scrutiny. They talk about it, tucked up in Eliot’s room under their quilt, but nothing concrete ever comes of those conversations. They just… continue as they have been, knowing each other far too well and trying to pretend they don't actually know each other that well.

It turns out to be a good thing that they know each other so well that they move around each other without thinking; two days later, a group of disgruntled Fillorian humans led by some of the remaining Fairies loyal to the late Queen make an attack on Castle Whitespire. Eliot and Quentin, returning from a day trip to the local village, are two of the first responders, and they hold the attackers at bay long enough for the soldiers and Margo to arrive. Once the attackers are soundly beaten - some dead, some wounded and brought into the Castle for treatment and imprisonment pending a trial, the rest scattered to the four winds - Quentin immediately turns his attention to Eliot. “Let me see your chest,” he demands. “You’re favoring your right shoulder. C’mon, shirt off.”

"I'm fine," Eliot insists, but he pulls his shirt over his head anyway. He's started to show a preference for simple, loose-fitting clothing ever since he got his memories back, but he doesn't think anyone has noticed yet. At least it makes removing his shirt with his admittedly-painful shoulder easier than it would have before.

"'I'm fine,' he says, with that giant-ass bruise," Quentin mutters, stepping in closer so he can start carefully prodding the already-mottled skin. "You'll be lucky if your clavicle isn't fucking broken."

Eliot hisses in a sharp breath and winces away. "Stop it," he says, "it's not that bad."

Quentin rolls his eyes, hands already working through a healing spell. "Don't lie to me," he scolds. "Would think you'd know better by now."

Eliot's just about to retort when Margo cuts him off. "What the hell is going on?" she demands, stalking over. "Is he hurt?"

"He's _fine_," Eliot snipes. "Vigilante fairies are crazy, and vigilante humans are well-armed. Quentin should be worrying about himself."

"_Quentin _is fine because _some _moron jumped in front of the well-armed human vigilante trying to hurt him. Quit _squirming, _El."

Eliot glares at him. "I don't need the mother hen act, Q. That got old long ago."

"He mother hens everyone," Margo says dismissively. She peers at the bruise, and then gives Quentin a look of surprisingly fierce approval. "Keep up the good work, Baby Q."

Quentin smiles at Margo before shooting Eliot a pointed look. "Hear that? An order from the High King. I'm almost done, so wipe that look off your face and hold still for another fifteen seconds."

Satisfied with Quentin's care, Margo wanders off. Eliot does his best to not wipe that look off his face, but he's smiling softly down at Quentin by the time he's finished despite himself. "Still looking after me," he says gently, "even now."

Quentin finishes the last tut before he looks up, his own smile soft. "Of course I am," he murmurs. "Made a promise to you and Arielle and Teddy, didn't I?"

"You did," Eliot says seriously, "and I made the same one. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Quentin assures him. "Some small bruises, maybe a couple of cuts. Nothing a bandaid won't fix."

Eliot rolls his eyes. "I don't think they have bandaids in Fillory."

Quentin smacks Eliot lightly on his non-injured shoulder. "You know what I mean. C'mon, let's go see who else needs help."

* * *

Margo considers the map of Fillory spread out before her for a long moment, pondering where best to send Eliot and Quentin, who are itching for another excursion. "I could use someone to go to Greenbriar Village," she says thoughtfully. "They were hit hard by the fairies. It's a few days ride, but easy riding. And you could stop by the waterfalls on your way, I hear they're gorgeous."

"Yeah, they are," Eliot says, almost without thinking, "but no. Hard no. We can't go there."

Margo looks at Eliot with a raised eyebrow. "Why not?"

"Major trauma resides in Greenbriar Village," Eliot says. "Quentin will not go back there."

The second eyebrow joins the first. "'Major trauma'?" Margo echoes. 

"He got chased by a boar," Eliot says. "Up a tree. It was very embarrassing."

Both eyebrows climb impossibly higher. "That does sound embarrassing, but... _When _did this happen?"

Eliot finally realises his mistake. He swallows hard. "Uhhh," he says. "Several decades ago."

Margo crosses her arms over her chest. "Your boyfriend got chased up a tree by a boar several _decades _ago?"

Eliot physically recoils. "He's not my fucking boyfriend," he spits.

"Well he's certainly not just your _friend,_ and don't think I didn't notice how you skipped right over the more important part of that," Margo warns. "How did Quentin get chased by a boar _decades _ago when he's only known Fillory exists for _two years?_"

Eliot takes a breath. "You read the note Quentin sent you after your wedding to that infant, right? About how we led full lives in the alternate timeline?"

Margo's brow furrows in thought. "Yes," she says slowly, "but I don't see - Wait." Her eyes widen in realization. "Are you trying to say you two _remember _that life?"

"Yes," Eliot says. "Don't ask me how, but... that's what I'm saying."

"That doesn't make any _sense,_ even if it does explain how you two have been acting lately," Margo huffs. "That life never happened after I took the key from Jane's grave."

"I know," Eliot insists, "I don't understand it myself. But I remember every second of it. I spent my whole life with him."

Margo studies Eliot intently for a moment, but whatever she sees in his face makes her sigh. "So. Not your boyfriend, huh?"

"No," Eliot says, instantly and with conviction. "He's not my boyfriend."

"So, what is he then? You two are _way _more than friends at this point."

"We're..." Eliot trails off, his mind racing. "I need to talk to Quentin."

Margo laughs, but it's fond, not unkind. "Go find him," she says with a wave of her hand. "I'll find someone else to go to Greenbriar."

* * *

Eliot finds him chatting to Fen in the throne room, and he'll feel bad about interrupting later. "Q," he says, rather abruptly. "We need to talk."

Quentin frowns, but as soon as he catches sight of the look on Eliot's face, his expression softens into one of concern. "Okay," he says, giving Fen an apologetic look as he steps closer to Eliot. "Let's go somewhere more private?"

"Yes," Eliot says. He finally spares Fen a glance. "Sorry, Fen, we'll catch up with you later." Fen just gives them a placid smile, and Eliot grabs Quentin's hand and all but drags him from the room.

Quentin stays quiet until they're back in Eliot's room. "Okay, what's wrong?" he demands, reaching out with his other hand so he has both of Eliot's in his. 

"Margo knows," Eliot says, his gaze skittering away from Quentin's. "That we remember that life."

Quentin blinks. "Oh," he says, rather dumbly. "How did she figure that out?"

"I gave the game away," Eliot says, "that's not important. She said-- Quentin, you're _not_ my boyfriend."

Quentin immediately makes a face at the term. "Gods, no," he says, frowning. "And you're not mine." The frown deepens as he catches on to what's upset Eliot this much. "But if we're not boyfriends, then..."

"We're nothing," Eliot insists. "We're not married in this timeline."

"What about partners?" Quentin suggests, though he's clearly doubtful about the term. 

Eliot pulls a face. "Is that the best we can do?"

Quentin sighs. "I don't know," he admits. "I mean. We aren't married now, but 'partner' doesn’t seem to... cover everything?"

Eliot hesitates. "Could we be married?" he asks.

Quentin's eyes widen. "Do you... want to be?"

"Do you not?" Eliot asks.

"I do, but... For all that we have this whole other life in our heads, here - We only _just _got our heads out of our asses."

"I know that," Eliot says, instantly defensive. "I just-- You _feel_ like my husband. I don't know how else to see this."

Quentin bites his lip. "I know, I feel the same. But there's no rush, right?"

"No," Eliot agrees. He looks away. "I guess not."

Quentin squeezes Eliot's hands. "Hey," he says softly, "look at me? I love you, El. That doesn't change just because we don't know what to call this thing right now."

Eliot huffs. "I know that," he says. "I love you, too."

Quentin smiles. "I'm just making sure. We'll figure it out eventually."

"Yeah," Eliot agrees, "I'm sure we will."

* * *

Eliot feels a little off after that conversation, but they're both trying so hard to keep everything normal that he can't tell if Quentin is similarly affected. He hasn't told Margo that Quentin turned down his suggestion that they marry again, but she's been treating him with her own special brand of kid gloves, so she knows something's up. But life carries on, and things are just starting to feel okay again when Julia blips into existence in the middle of Eliot's bedroom.

They're still not thinking of it as _their_ bedroom.

"Julia," Eliot says, pleasantly, like she hasn't just caught him trying to get Quentin's shirt off. "What a nice surprise."

"Hey guys," Julia says, supremely unbothered by the flustered boys before her. "I'm sorry to interrupt; this isn't a personal call."

Something in Julia's tone sets Quentin on edge, and he sits upright, hand automatically seeking out Eliot's. "What's wrong?"

"It's your dad, Q," Julia tells him. "Magic's back, and so is his cancer."

Quentin feels the blood drain from his face. “Is he - “

"He's okay," Julia says. "But it's worse than it was before." She looks like she's going to cry.

Quentin sags in his seat, grip tightening on Eliot’s hand. “I need to go see him.”

Eliot squeezes his hand. "Do you want me to come with you?"

”Yes,” Quentin says without hesitation. “I - We should go soon.”

"We could go now," Julia offers.

Quentin glances at Eliot, biting his lip. “We don’t have anything to do here right now, do we?”

"No," Eliot says. "Let me send word to Margo and we can go right now."

Sending word to Margo takes only a few moments and then Julia teleports them to Ted Coldwater’s neighborhood. Quentin’s heart is in his throat as they walk up the sidewalk, and when Ted opens the door, Quentin doesn’t give him a chance to say anything before he’s launched himself into his father’s arms. Ted grunts with the impact but catches Quentin nonetheless. “Q, Jules,” he says, a bit bewildered. “And... I’m sorry, who is this?”

"I'm Eliot," Eliot says. "I'm a friend of Quentin's."

Quentin finally releases his father to step back, taking Eliot’s hand in his. “Little more than a friend,” he says, and Ted’s eyes widen in understanding.

”Oh! Well, good.” Ted’s smile is genuine as he steps out of the doorway. “Come on in, you can tell me what you’ve been up to at that magic school of yours over a drink.”

They give him a very edited version of the events of the past few months, and Ted Coldwater seems nothing but accepting of the knowledge that Quentin has been living in sin with Eliot in a different world. "So are you going to go back and finish your degree?" is all he asks when the three of them have finished their story.

Quentin laughs. "That, uh. Well, maybe?" He shrugs, glancing at Eliot and Julia. "It... kinda feels like we're a bit beyond degrees, now."

"Then are you staying in Fillory?"

Quentin takes a deep breath. “For a while, yeah. Margo’s… got a lot on her plate, she needs our support. But we’ll come visit as much as we can.” He doesn’t seem to notice how his hand has sought out Eliot’s, or how he’s phrased everything in those three sentences as ‘we.’

Eliot notices, though, and so does Ted. "So you two," he says, not subtly at all. "How long has that been going on for?" Eliot's hand spasms in Quentin's.

Quentin freezes. “Uh. A while?” he hedges; they hadn’t said anything about the whole ‘fifty years that didn’t exist’ thing, had only said that they’d gone on the Quest together. “A long while?”

"And this is how you bring him home to meet the parents?" Ted asks. "By dragging him to your dying father's bedside?"

"Oh, Mr Coldwater," Eliot hastens to assure him, "I offered to come with Quentin; I wanted to be here."

Ted smiles at him. "And that tells me you're a good man," he says. "But I'm not dead yet, so there was no need for all the dramatics, Curly Q."

Quentin huffs. "Well, it's not that easy to get news from Earth in Fillory!" he protests. "And we've been... busy, you can't blame me for panicking."

"Julia told you when you needed to know, didn't she?" Ted asks. "I'm fine, son. For now, anyway."

Julia looks briefly uncomfortable. "I've got a lot going on," she says, "so I... I won't be able to keep as close of an eye on you, either."

Quentin waves a hand in Julia's direction as if to say _See?_ "You just said it yourself, you're fine _for now. _Things can go wrong really fast with cancer, Dad."

"So then we'll stick around," Eliot tells him, squeezing Quentin's hand. "Margo can get messages to us if she needs us, but we're not kings anymore, we're not actually _needed_ there. Fogg will probably let us stay on campus, or we could get an apartment--"

"No," Ted says quickly. He gives them both a soft smile. "As much as I appreciate the offer, why would you do that? So you can sit around and watch me die? I don't want that for you, Curly Q. I want you out in the world, whatever world you choose, living your life. I want to know that you're happy."

”There’s other things we can do in this world,” Quentin points out. “And it’s a pain trying to find a reliable way to and from Fillory if there’s the least little bit of drama going on there. But I know I’ve… been gone, a lot. I…” He glances at Eliot, the decades-old pain in his eyes speaking clearly: _I don’t want to miss these last months again._ Quentin takes a deep breath, glances back at Ted and smiles. “I’m happy, though. I really am.”

"I can see that," Ted says. "I can see how happy Eliot makes you. I want you to stay that way."

Quentin smiles, squeezes Eliot's hand. "We are happy," he says. "And we're planning on staying that way for as long as we can. It... means a lot, to both of us, that you're okay with this."

"Of course I am," Ted laughs - and something must show on Eliot's face, because he frowns. "I'm guessing your parents haven't been so accepting?"

Eliot gives him a sad smile. "No, sir," he admits. "I haven't even seen my parents since I left home at eighteen. They don't want to see me."

Ted nods. "Well, no more of this 'sir' or 'Mr Coldwater' crap. Call me Ted. You're family now."

Eliot's heart does something funny in his chest. "I-- Thank you, Ted."

Ted beams at them. "With that in mind," he says, "do I hear wedding bells in the future?"

Julia, heartless witch that she is sometimes, does nothing but laugh when Quentin chokes on his own spit. "I - What?"

"I'm just asking," Ted laughs. Eliot thinks he might pass out. "Is it not on the cards?"

"Let's just say it's a loaded topic for these two," Julia smirks while Quentin tries to find his tongue. 

"It's not _not _on the cards?" he tries, shooting Julia a half-hearted glare. "But.... Yeah. It's uh. Complicated. Because magic? And, er, Questing... problems? Well, no, not _problems,_ but definitely complications."

"It's okay, Q," Eliot murmurs, swiping his thumb over the back of Quentin's hand.

Ted raises his eyebrows. "All right," he says, "I'll drop it. But as far as I'm concerned, when you know, you know."

Quentin forces himself to take a deep breath, squeezing Eliot's hand. "Yeah, we know," he agrees, giving Eliot a small smile. "There's just... a lot to think about."

"If you say so," Ted says. He finishes off his drink and gets to his feet. "Anyone want another?"

* * *

The conversation moves to easier topics after that, though Quentin is still thinking about his dad’s words on marriage when he and Eliot finally retire to Quentin’s old room to spend the night. He’s quiet as they undress, doesn’t speak until they’ve slipped under the covers and curled up together. “Hey, El?” Quentin murmurs, tucking himself up under Eliot’s chin; he doesn’t think he can get this conversation started if he’s looking right at Eliot. “Do you... Do you remember what I said I wanted most, the night before our wedding?”

Eliot gives him a quizzical smile. "Remind me," he says.

Quentin swallows. “I wanted our family there,” he murmurs. “Arielle’s family was great, but... We didn’t have anyone there but ourselves.”

"You did say that," Eliot remembers. "It was hard on both of us."

”It was, but... We’ve got a second chance at that, now.”

Eliot's breath catches in his throat. "We do," he allows, "if you want one."

”That’s never been in question,” Quentin confesses. “I want to marry you, El. I just... wanted to be sure that it’s because it’s what _we_ want, not just because of our memories.”

"I get that," Eliot says. "But I know how I feel about you, Quentin. I know what I want."

”Broken brain, remember?” Quentin chuckles, but it’s weak, humorless. “I know what I want, too, I just... can’t help but worry.”

"Then maybe we need to bench this conversation for a while," Eliot says, not unkindly. "I know exactly what you're thinking, but I don't want you to make any rash decisions because of what your dad said earlier."

"Decisions like running off to Fillory without knowing _when _we would arrive?" Quentin asks dryly. He pulls back just enough to tilt his head up, finally look Eliot in the face. "I love you, El. That's not going to change anytime soon, or ever."

"It's not going to change for me, either," Eliot says. "But that doesn't automatically mean you're ready."

"No, but the fact that I haven't stopped thinking about it since you brought it up does. And the fact that I really fucking miss being married to you, and letting everyone know we belong to each other."

Eliot smiles down at him softly, reaches up to stroke his hair back from his face. "I suppose it wouldn't really be so different to what it's like, now."

"Probably not," Quentin hums, leaning into Eliot's touch. "I'd get to call you my husband again, though. That'd be nice."

"Yes," Eliot agrees, "it would be."

"Margo might insist on having the wedding at Whitespire," Quentin says thoughtfully. "Think we could handle that?"

"Your dad needs to be there," Eliot says. "If he's happy to travel between worlds, then I'm game."

"He'll probably jump at the chance," Quentin muses. "He's been eager to learn as much about magic as he can ever since I told him it was real."

Eliot smiles at that. "I'm glad," he says. "He loves you so much, Q."

"And he likes you," Quentin says, smiling. "I figured he would, but it's nice to see I was right."

"Well," Eliot teases, "he's clearly an excellent judge of character."

Quentin grins, leans in for a kiss. "I'm serious, though. It means... everything to me, that he approves of you."

"I know," Eliot says, and he does. They talked about it often enough in that other timeline, when the memories of their friends and family back home weren't too painful. "It means a lot to me, too."

Quentin smiles, reaches up to card his fingers through Eliot's hair. "So, you wanna get married again?"

Eliot laughs. "This is only slightly more romantic than your last proposal."

Quentin groans, rolling onto his back and throwing his arm over his face. "Christ, that was awful," he remembers. "I still say it should've been obvious I wanted to marry you, too, not just Arielle."

"I was insecure!" Eliot laughs. "Sweetheart, you said it yourself, we didn't say 'I love you' for fifty years. We were still quite new, then, and then along comes this gorgeous creature... I just wanted you to be happy."

"Arielle was gorgeous, but I'd been with you for over a year!" Quentin reminds him, grinning. "And Arielle was _all _for keeping you around, too."

Eliot smirks. "I remember."

Quentin rolls back onto his side, gives Eliot's shoulder a light shove. "I'm not fucking you while my dad's probably still awake, so get that look off your face, babe," he laughs before sobering. "I do love you, y'know? So much that it... It kinda scares me, sometimes. But I want another fifty years and more with you, more than I've ever wanted, well, anything." Quentin licks his lips, reaches up to brush Eliot's hair back from his forehead, fingertips coming to rest against his jaw. "So... Will you marry me?"

Eliot's smile is so tender, it makes Quentin ache. "Yes," he says softly. "I'll marry you."

* * *

Ted is already up and about when they drag themselves downstairs the next morning. Eliot didn't quite persuade Quentin that morning sex was a good idea, but he thinks his chances for tonight might be significantly improved. They hold hands while they follow the smell of bacon to the kitchen, and Ted grins when he sees them. "You two look like you're in a good mood," he comments. "Sleep well, boys?"

"Very well," Quentin says with a yawn. "Some of that for us?"

"Sure is," Ted says, turning back to the stove. "Take a seat, Eliot. Q, get your young man a cup of coffee."

Eliot sits down at the table and waggles his eyebrows at Quentin. "I could get used to this."

Quentin heaves a theatrical sigh. "I suppose it's only fair after all the drinks you served me at the cottages."

"I make an excellent martini, Ted," Eliot confides. "I'll have to make you one sometime."

Ted throws a grin at him over his shoulder. "I'm more of a beer guy, honestly."

Eliot pulls a face. "We'll see."

Quentin laughs, pouring Eliot a cup of coffee and fixing it just how he likes it. "Yeah, he converted me from beer and cheap wine," Quentin informs Ted, bringing the coffee over. "It's uh, part of what made me fall for him, that everything feels new with him."

Eliot just fucking _melts_. He takes Quentin's hand. "The feeling is entirely mutual, darling."

"It also helps that you're dramatic as hell," Quentin teases, flushing when he catches sight of Ted's fond look. "What?"

"I'm just happy for you," Ted says. "It's about time you had someone good in your life, Q."

Eliot smiles. "I'm certainly trying to be good for him."

Quentin gives Eliot a small smile, and when Ted turns back to the stove, Quentin leans in to murmur, "Should we tell him now?"

Eliot turns his head to press a kiss to Quentin's cheek. "If you're ready, sweetheart."

"What are you two whispering about?" Ted asks over his shoulder.

Quentin reaches for Eliot's hand and gives it a squeeze before answering his dad. "When to tell you that we're getting married."

"_What?_" Their bacon almost hits the floor. Ted is quick to turn the heat off, and then he's spinning around to gape at them. "Did you just say _married?_"

Quentin's smile turns nervous. "Yeah, married. It's something we've talked about before, but after last night..."

"Q," Ted says, completely abandoning the stove in favour of walking up to his son. Eliot jumps to his feet in his haste to both save their breakfast and give them a moment. "If you're doing this because of me--"

"We're not," Quentin hastens to assure him. "It's... _really _not a sudden decision on our part. We've done this before."

"What?" Ted asks. "What does that even mean?"

Quentin takes a deep breath. "Remember the complications I mentioned last night? El and I lived a whole life together in another timeline that Margo stopped from happening for us now - magic is complicated, especially when time magic gets involved. But that life we had, it was..." Quentin looks at Eliot over Ted's shoulder, his smile turning soft. "It was beautiful," he says softly. 

Eliot turns to give him a wink, and then goes back to dishing up.

"Wait a minute," Ted says. "So you-- What?"

"We were married for fifty years," Eliot says, breezing past them to put plates on the table. "We had a child."

"_What_."

"And a wife," Quentin says. "Her name was Arielle, but - she died a few years after our son was born. Teddy named his first daughter after her."

"You had a kid and you named it after me?" Ted asks, bewildered. "And-- How does the wife factor in?"

"Quentin was married to us both," Eliot says. "Maybe we should sit down for this? Breakfast is getting cold."

"We sure as hell weren't gonna name him after fucking _Josh,_" Quentin snorts, pulling out a chair for his dad. "That was just asking for trouble. I married Arielle and Eliot on the same day - Fillorian marriage laws are weird and very strict about 'cheating.' El and I were together before I got with Arielle, but she knew and accepted that."

"And the three of you were... together?" Ted asks.

"Sort of," Eliot says. "I'm almost exclusively homosexual, but I loved Arielle a lot."

"And Arielle loved you just as much," Quentin says with a smile. 

Ted looks between the two of them, bewildered. "Am I supposed to understand this?"

"Not right away," Quentin says hastily. "It's complicated, we know. But it means that we're sure that we want to get married now, and we want you to be there."

Ted just keeps looking at them for the longest moment - and then he laughs. "Fifty years?" he asks. "Really?"

"Really," Quentin laughs. "Fifty wonderful years, except for the whole being stuck three hundred years in the past."

"Well," Ted says, "if you still love each other after fifty years, I'd say it's a fair bet you'll love each other for another fifty."

Eliot smiles. "I'd like to think so."

Quentin shares Eliot's smile, reaching across the table to take Eliot's hand in his and squeeze. "I'd say our odds are pretty good, yeah."

* * *

They decide that they only want a small wedding, but they also want to do it right, so they set a date a couple of months away. Ted jumps at the chance to travel to Fillory, just like Quentin said he would, and Margo jumps at the chance to plan the whole thing. This suits Quentin and Eliot just fine, since they have no intention of going back to Fillory anytime soon.

Ted kicks them out of his house after about a week. For all that he seems okay the first few days of their visit, it quickly becomes apparent that he really isn't well, and Ted can only take so much of his pride being damaged before he decides he doesn't want them around for all the gnarly stuff. So they go to Brakebills, and they talk to Dean Fogg. He really doesn't want to help them, but when they confront him with the fact that he tried to have their memories wiped mere moments after they almost got themselves killed saving all of magic everywhere, he realises he has no choice. He sets them up with a lovely little apartment not far from Ted's place, and even finds Eliot a job that pays well enough that Quentin doesn't have to work while he's focusing on his dad. It's just tedious office work, and Eliot hates it, but it's not forever. He can work out what he really wants to do later.

The next few weeks fly by, between working and wedding prep and caring for Ted, the latter of which soon becomes a much bigger part of their lives. Julia really wasn't kidding when she said it was worse than last time; Ted is deteriorating faster than either of them expected, and it's taking its toll on Quentin.

Which is why Eliot is grateful when Julia drops by for a visit a week before the wedding. Quentin could use the distraction, and he knows he's been missing Julia more than usual recently.

The moment Julia walks through the door to their apartment, she wraps Quentin up in a hug, just holds him for so long that Eliot feels the need to avert his gaze. "I'm so sorry I couldn't come sooner," she murmurs. "Are you okay?"

Quentin shakes his head, burying his face in the crook of Julia's neck. "I'm not that great," he mumbles. "I'm not ready to lose him, Jules."

"I know," Julia murmurs. "I've been watching when I can. It's awful."

Quentin pulls back then, pulling Julia further into the apartment. He doesn't speak again until they're curled up together on the couch, and when he does, he doesn't sound hopeful, more like he's asking a question he already knows the answer to. "You can't do anything for him?"

"I can't cure him," Julia says, and she sounds like it physically pains her to admit it. "I've been easing his pain as much as I can, but I'm not strong enough to actually take the cancer away. I'm not sure anyone is."

Quentin nods, like he'd expected that answer. "I figured you would've done it already if you could," he mumbles. 

"I wish I could, Q," Julia tells him. "It breaks my heart that you're going through this."

Quentin sighs, the sound as shaky as the hand he pushes through his hair. "I hate that _he's _going through this," he mumbles, leaning back into Julia's side. "It just... sucks all around."

Julia wraps her arms around him and pulls him in close. "I know," she murmurs. "I know, Q."

Eliot joins them then, curling up behind Quentin and pulling them both in close. None of them say anything for quite some time after that, too busy comforting each other.

* * *

The weeks pass quickly; Eliot and Quentin spend as much time with Ted as he’ll let them have, and just as Ted does his best not to let on how bad things really are, Quentin does his best not to let his father see him cry. He saves that for when he and Eliot are alone, curled up in their apartment. 

Preparing for their second, more modern wedding is a good distraction, however; Margo is handling the majority of the preparations, but she does have some things she asks their opinion on. Well, that she asks _Eliot’s_ opinion on, when it comes to the color scheme for their suits. Or for the wedding itself. Or for anything that isn’t food, really. Julia stops by whenever she can, and Penny spends some time Traveling between Earth and Fillory, bringing whatever samples the rabbits can’t carry and any news. Including the news of Alice’s judgement - she’s been granted a probationary pardon, and is currently staying in Fillory, in Castle Whitespire under the supervision of Tick and Fen - and Fen’s knives. Quentin is relieved to hear this bit; he and Julia had argued for being lenient towards Alice, considering _why_ she had been working with the Library to begin with, and that she had been caught before any harm could be done, but Margo hadn’t given him any clue as to what her ruling would be after they’d talked.

Before they know it, it’s the day before their wedding. Penny Travels Eliot, Quentin, and Ted to Fillory, and Eliot and Quentin spend the day alternately showing Ted around Castle Whitespire and in Margo’s clutches for last-minute alterations to their suits. Whenever Eliot and Quentin aren’t with Ted, however, Fray is; she’s curious about Earth from a non-magician’s perspective, and Ted is eager to answer her questions and have his own answered in return. 

Margo keeps Eliot and Quentin separate as the final alterations are made to their suits, insisting that they need to get the full effect when they walk down the aisle together. It’s a minor departure from the usual ceremony, but considering the High King is the one organizing and conducting the ceremony, no one’s said anything. Margo gives the two of them strict instructions not to even _talk_ about their suits with each other before she sends them off to dinner with Ted, and although Quentin is practically dying of curiosity about Eliot’s suit, he has a healthy fear of _actually_ dying from Margo’s rage if he disobeys her orders, so he keeps his mouth shut, even as he and Eliot climb into their bed. 

The next day is a blur, Quentin being whisked from one room to another, poked and prodded, undressed and then dressed again in the suit that Margo had commissioned for him - he’d had to stop and stare at his reflection for a solid thirty seconds the first time he saw himself in the entire thing; the fabric is midnight blue, the boutonniere made of baby’s breath, gladiolus haley, and a soft peach rose. When Ted checks in on him before going to his seat, they both end up with tears in their eyes, hugging each other as tightly as they dare with Margo standing nearby.

Quentin knows what he’s supposed to do, his cue to step out to meet Eliot at the end of the aisle for their walk to the altar, how to walk with the slow, measured pace that will match the music - but when that cue comes, Quentin’s breath freezes in his chest for a moment.

Then the moment passes, and he opens the door, rounds the corner, and comes face to face with his soon-to-be husband. Eliot is wearing a suit reminiscent of one of his High King outfits; the fabric is the same deep blue as Quentin’s, the delicate leaf and vine pattern edged in thin silver thread, and his boutonniere matches Quentin’s. He looks _stunning._

Time seems to stop for a moment. Eliot takes his time just drinking Quentin in, something shocked and awed in his gaze, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. And then he steps forward, and holds out his hand. "Shall we?" he asks.

Quentin manages to, somehow, step forward and take Eliot’s hand in his without tripping over his own feet. He doesn’t trust himself not to start crying with how _overwhelmed_ he is, so all he does is nod and let Eliot guide the two of them to the aisle, starting them down as the music crests and everyone rises from their seats to watch them approach the altar.

Alice gives the two of them a small smile from her spot in a corner, away from the main crowd; Fen, standing by her side, smirks at Quentin, gives Eliot a thumbs up. Kady is grinning, and even Penny, standing beside her, looks happy for them. Julia and Ted are both beaming from their spot in the front row, and there’s more than a few tears in their eyes. 

Margo is waiting for them by the altar, under the same arch that she had once been married under, that Quentin and Eliot had remembered a life that they never lived in this timeline. Gladiolus haley, roses, and irises are twined through and around the arch, ivy filling in between the flowers. The music drifts off right as Eliot and Quentin take their spots in front of the altar, and Margo gestures for the guests to sit. She takes a moment to smile at them both before speaking. “You all know why we’re here today; without these two, magic would not be here today. In another lifetime, they solved the riddle of the mosaic by showing the beauty of all life - the beauty of a life well-lived.

”They had their ups and downs before they tried to solve the mosaic, during it, and after. None of us here will ever really know all that Quentin and Eliot have been through. What we do know is that they are _disgustingly_ in love with each other, and so damn dedicated to each other that they decided they wanted another lifetime together.” Margo’s smile widens, and she shifts her attention to Quentin and Eliot. “I’m not going to drag this out. We all know how Fillorian weddings go - some of us more intimately than others - so let’s get started. Quentin Coldwater, do you promise to be true to Eliot Waugh, to love and cherish him for all of your days? To care for him when he can’t - or won’t - take care of himself, and to do whatever it takes to keep your relationship happy and healthy for as long as you both shall live?”

Quentin doesn’t bother pretending that he isn’t blinking back tears as he vows, his voice thick, “I do.”

Margo’s smile softens as she turns to Eliot. “Eliot Waugh, do you promise to be true to Quentin Coldwater, to love and cherish him for all of your days? To care for him when his brain breaks, when the world seems so much darker and more grey to him than it does to the rest of us? Do you promise to do whatever it takes to keep your relationship happy and healthy for as long as you both shall live?”

Eliot squeezes Quentin's hand. He's never been more sure of anything in either life. "I do."

A few tuts puts the rings they'd chosen in Margo's hand, and she holds them out to Quentin and Eliot. "Then take these rings as a token of this promise, that you might never forget it, no matter how difficult things may get."

The rings are gold, peach and plum tree blossoms engraved on the outside and the day's date on the inside. The one that Quentin takes and slides reverently onto Eliot's left ring finger feels far heavier than it should, with five decades of history behind it. Quentin watches Eliot's face as he puts the ring on, unable to stop smiling or to look away, caught up in the euphoria that this is _real. _

Eliot can't look away from their hands, but Quentin can still see that there's a tear in his eye. It finally falls when he slides Quentin's ring on, just slips silently down his cheek, and he does glance up then to give Quentin a breathless smile.

Margo's voice is still strong and clear, but there's a definitive note of emotion in it as she declares, "As High King of Fillory, I now pronounce you wed. You may kiss your husband!"

Quentin doesn’t waste any time, reaching up to haul Eliot into a kiss that echoes across their memories, backed by the cheers of their friends and family.


End file.
